Iris
by BrieflyDel
Summary: Peace has reigned over Redwall for generations -- uninterrupted until a mysterious creature washes up on the banks of the River Moss. Shang Widowmaker has destroyed her kingdom. And Tori Rubyhaer craves revenge. *COMPLETE!*
1. Prologue

_Hi there. Rather large A/N coming :) Please bear with me._   
_This is a story I wrote in 1997, when I was 12. It's fraught with AU, OC, OoC, and crossovers. I'd like to take this opportunity to sincerely and **emphatically** apologize to Tori Amos, The Beatles, Oasis, Sarah McLachlan, and Brian Jacques, among others. Now that that's over with, I actually think the story's pretty cool, five years later._   
_I've been rescuing _Iris_ from my '95 Mac, and it's not terribly clear when I'll be able to have it all up. The Mac is **very** temperamental with converting files, as this epic was written on the now-defunct ClarisWorks. Ennyhoo, if you people like it... *shrugs* I guess we'll see *grin*._   
__

> "Today was fraught with joy as three great events happened here at Redwall. Liam and Noel Gallagher and Paul Braunhayr, the last of Tori Rubyhaer's Innisvree veterans, finally arrived home a few days back after more than four seasons' absence. This morning, Noel was married to Rivenna, and when I congratulated her during the great Nameday feast for the new summer, she told me it was well worth the wait. The pair seems very content together: I wonder if Noel's brother will ever seek a wife? But Liam says no: poor thing, his heart will always belong solely to Tori. 
> 
> "Later in the day, Llawder, the mouse who arrived with the Gaels last spring, was given the sword of Martin the Warrior, as well as the title of Champion of Redwall. Feelings were mixed, though, as Llawder solemnly told his predecessor Michael, 'This belongs to your son.'...

John Tamworth shut volume eight of _The Complete Recorders' History of Redwall Abbey._ The wolf wondered why anyone would want to own such a monstrous collection. In fact, why would anyone want to come to the old abbey at all these days?   
Well, his mother, for one."You're directly descended from Tamga and Samhain, John, and Redwall is just as involved in your history as Innisvree. This is just closer, that's all. Someday we'll take you to the battle field, but it's a good fifteen hour drive from here.   
Someone nudged him."Psst! Hey John, take a look at what I found!" Nick Clifshire poked his head around one of the gift shop's bookshelves. The otter held a paperback out. "Talks about that big battle your mum's always ragging on about. Maybe you should show it to her." He winked.   
His buddy chuckled, and took the book. "Nah, she's probably already got three copies, what, with her bein' a historian an' such." He glanced over the cover. "Funny title. Hmm." 

Something made him buy the book. As he wandered out of the store and through the old Great Hall, holding the plastic bag loosely by its handle, he found a bench and sat down, footpaws aching after a long tour through the monolithic stone building. Looking up at some footsteps, he found himself facing the tapestry of the abbey's Founding Champion, Martin the Warrior. He'd already suffered a long lecture on the old weaving, however, and casually dug out his purchase.   
The title was written in woven Celtic format, accompanied by an artist's rendering of the Tundralake heroine. John examined it. 

> I R I S : the Chronicle of Princess Tori Rubyhaer's Salvation of the Tundralake Country   
as told to George Flantyr,   
Recorder of Redwall Abbey, Mossflower,   
by Liam Gallagher, Abbey Bard

He read over "Tardanfinne" on the inside cover. Intrigued, he turned the page.   
  



	2. I

**COLD, BLAZING WINDS YOWLED** around her ears like her mother's anguished cry of grief when her grandfather had-- 

She was too numb to think of it. Clinging miserably to the sole chunk of ice and wood that bore her down a raging stream, she almost felt like giving up. She was the runt of her litter of four, or had been. Now she was all that was left. How ironic. Had she not devoted all of her time to her music and concentrated more on what was sorely needed, warriors, they might not have--Shang had been _right there...._

The river tossed her barely conscious onto a bank, in a heap of wet fur. She gave a strangled, instinctive cry as she was thrown soggily against the snow and thudded into the ground. A gentle flurry was materializing out of the torrents of freezing rain, and delicately fell on the pitiful bundle. She weakly crawled further up the bank and collapsed again. The creature was then mercifully drawn into the realms of a slightly delirious rest. The only thing that kept a fire burning in her fierce heart was the memory of that sheer fall off that icen cliff, and the last, laughing sneer she'd heard, coming from her now-sworn enemy. It echoed in her head endlessly. 

"Ha! Now the last of them is gone! Go join your family at Dark Forest Gates, weak one! You'll find none of their company here!!!" 

Her kind and her horde had always been an annoyance to her family and the Holt of otters that they'd lived with, but then they had become stronger than they thought..... 

"Mama, Poppa....." she whimpered at the apparitions and memories. But of all names, the one she would be screaming when she killed the white fox, rippled through her mind. The Widowmaker, as she was known up north: Shang Widowmaker! Cursed name! The wind enveloped any further thoughts and she was lost in the kind or cruel domain of sleep. 

* * * 

**SNUGGLED DEEP INTO THE GREAT **cushioned chairs of Cavern Hole, the Father Abbot of Redwall, a relatively young mouse called Daniel; another mouse who cut a dashing and charming figure named Michael, who was also the present Abbey Warrior, although it was something now which in recent seasons had become more of an eccentric title and one only for tradition; and the Badger Mother Dolores, shared tea. Michael looked out one of the great windows. 

"Wouldn't want t'be caught in that, that's for sure! Talk about be glad we have Redwall! I wonder how those woodlanders can take it." Dolores chuckled. 

"That's because we Abbeydwellers are just naturally soft. We haven't had any wars or quests or voyages since...since anything!" 

"Speaking of warriors," Daniel grinned wryly, "Fiona and Merrill the otter twins are somewhere in the building. I can hear Jakob kicking and screaming already!" 

"Oh no!" Dolores groaned. "Don't tell me the Friaress caught him 'helping' poor Calvin Chestnut again! I can't deal with Elena when she's in a mood." Luckily for her nerves, the thumping and echoing arguments moved in the direction of Cavern Hole and faded away. 

* * * * 

"Now listen, y'young rip!" Fiona chastened the struggling young mouse. "I know you hate babysitting for the Dibbuns, but that's no excuse to leave them with that-that-" She spluttered, trying not to giggle at the thought. "That walking feedbag of a stomach!" Jakob glared at her. 

"What is it that you have against Tryffen anyway?" he protested. Merrill held up her paws innocently. 

"It's not me, it's Sister Willow: she don't trust him wi' th'little uns! Can't say as I disagree. That hare's as likely t'lose 'em all o'er the Abbey or else eat their snacks an' blame th'Father Abbot!" Jakob rolled his eyes. Fiona caught it and punched him lightly. 

"C'mon, mouse, that's no way for a Warrior of Redwall-t'be t'act!" He groaned. 

"D'you have any idea how sick I am of having to try to act like a Warrior's son? All the time, it's learn your code, help others, be good an' honest an' true. I know everything already! It isn't even anything important anymore: nothing exciting happens here anymore, and no one would ever dare attack Redwall. Why do they keep complaining about how I'm a disgrace to my father and all?!" 

Merrill snorted. "Don't worry, you're not, you're makin' fabulous progress an' all that. They just say that t'motivate yeh. There's talk of givin' yeh the sword at the start o' summer, actually. It's nothin' t'worry yore 'ead 'bout." Jakob fell silent and moodily cooperated with the twins as they escorted him toward the kitchens. 

In front of him, he could hear snippets and bits of conversations and the constant activity that was always on "full" in Redwall Abbey. 

"Sister Anne, can you please find that great fat loaf of a hedgehog Calvin Chestnut? I need some medicinal ales: I'm all out." Further down the hall and behind him, he heard a shout from near the kitchens. 

"Goodness gracious, that reminds me! We'll also need some more candied chestnuts! Some naughty Dibbun's been sneaking more than a few!" 

"Hurr, no daowt yon maister Tregfen's been at et, nawt 'ee Gibbuns," a mole colloquially commented to himself in the peculiar accent of his kind, and continued waddling down an offshooting corridor to relay a message to the Foremole. 

Jakob smiled, and turned his attention to the other side of the hall. 

"Ahhhh!!! C'mere, you liddle monster!! It's bedtime an' a bath fer you, yeh liddle beast!!" The Skipper's son, a tall, heavily-muscled otter named Wynnstream, ran in front of them, chasing a baby squirrel, who was squealing happily. Tryffen had, indeed, lost the Dibbuns all over the Abbey. 

"Nononononono!!! I gonna go outside an' eat alla--" This idle eavesdropping was suddenly interrupted by an uproar down toward Great Hall. Fiona and Merrill, who'd been lazily chattering, straightened abruptly as yells came echoing clamorously through the Abbey. 

"Make room for him!" 

"Give him air!" 

"What did you see, Beechwood?" Dolores noticed the heavy fuss and wisely herded all the Dibbuns into another room and began to play with them. 

"Hold on a second," the panting squirrel said, and flopped down onto the table. Jakob broke free from the distracted otters' grasp and raced down the hall, arriving well before they did. As soon as he caught his breath, Beechwood, a good friend of Michael's, began to talk. 

"Over by Wuddshipp Creek, there's a creature lyin' there, practically dead. Poor thing, it looked like it'd been through a lot." He halted to breathe, and stared at the floor disbelievingly. The Abbot tried to coax him further. 

"Beechwood, what was it?" The squirrel shook his head. 

"You're not going to believe this, but I can't tell you any more than it's way too big to be a fox or a towndog! This is something....something we don't ever see in Mossflower, never even in a blue moon." 

"Beech, d'you have any idea what sort of a creature this might be, or where it was from?" The curious piping voice belonged to Brother Neil, the portly abbey recorder. He shuffled forward and strained to hear the answer. Beechwood bit his lip. 

"It was pretty close to the banks, an' that particular creek..." He thought, but couldn't place it. "Someone help me out, which way does it flow? I know next to nothing about rivers." 

"She flows south," Merrill called out. "Beechy, you old treejumper, that's somethin' every woodlander should know anyway!" 

"Hey, okay, so I can't think at the moment! You wouldn't be able to either if you'da seen this creature!" 

"So the river could've brought it from the Northlands, then..." someone mused. It turned out to be Brother Neil again. "So, Beech, would you, on a guess, say that this creature could possibly be a wolf?" The room froze. A wolf? They were only rumors from the farthest Northlands, never down in Mossflower country! It was doubtful to most they even existed, except in stories to scare Dibbuns off to bed. A buzz sprang up, full of debates. 

"A wolf? Never! What would one be doing down here anyway?" 

"If there's one, there'll always be more. They're never alone!" 

"Now, now, you don't know that..." 

"If there're more, they could be dangerous." Abbot Daniel tried to silence the room. 

"Wait, wait, quiet down, everyone, quiet down," he said levelly. Eventually it simmered to mostly silence, except for the steadily decreasing wheeze of Beechwood's lost breath. "I suggest that we go out and try to help this...creature. It may be a wolf, it may not be. If it's against us, then that's the way things go." 

Michael jumped up. "Fabulous idea, Father Abbot! I say we leave right now! Beechy old boy, what kind of condition did you say it was in?" 

"I didn't, an' stop calling me Beechy. It was under a lot of debris and some snow, but it looked pretty bad from what I could see, bleedin' and such. Took a battering from wherever it came from." He glanced out the window, at the soggy mush that used to have the honor of being called snow, in the direction of the creek bank. 

* * * 

Far away from the beginnings of spring in Mossflower, two green lights blinked against the snow. A harsh breeze began, and something stood up, completely invisible. The head craned upward, watching the last of the magpies soar high above it. It then turned its attention to other things. 

"Anastasia, Tatyanna, come look!" a soft voice commanded from the white vixen, as it was revealed to be. Two other foxes, both long, sleek beautiful females, joined her. One had her mother's green eyes, but to a much lesser degree. The other daughter was strange: she had one fiery amber iris and the other a blue colder than the snow their camouflaged fur stood out against. Behind them, a vast horde of vermin stood, more silent than the rubble of the vanquished city they'd inhabited for the past fortnight. 

"Mother?" the one with the duel-toned eyes, Anastasia, asked innocently. The elder fox sat down and smiled, baring her flawless teeth, pale and almost glowing white. Her breath rose in the air as she spoke. 

"Do you see that? There," she pointed toward the nearby seashore. "The Seal People are congregating with their young ones. We move south now ." Tatyanna peered at the gray-brown blobs far below their perch on the edge of the cliff. Calmly, the white vixen gazed back at the now smoldering ruins of those stupid oafs of Holt Farnell and that noble Trybe of ninnies. She felt compelled to giggle, but didn't, to preserve her ruthless dignity around her two daughters, who were too prone to gossip. But those wolves! Without another word, she threw back her head and let out a terrifying "Winterchildren! Answer my call!" 

With a roar, the anxious masses three unified fox tribes and a horde of vermin, mostly stoats and weasels, with a scattering of hardy ferrets and even fewer rats, responded. "Shang Widowmakeeeeerrrrrrrr!!!!!" The wild vixen felt herself grow tall with the thought of conquest running hot through her veins. 

"Where do we go, my children?" she shrieked. 

"South! South! South!" Shang Widowmaker's dangerous green eyes glowed and radiated ferocity. 

"Let us bring Winter to the Southlands! We will prosper and rule!" Without warning a howl ripped from her throat. The horde grew even louder and the march began. The Widowmaker was on the move! 

* * * 

From atop a hill, two figures forebodingly watched them go, until they were no more than wriggling blots upon the sparkling taiga. One began to lunge toward them, but the other restrained him, and urgently shook his head no. The one who'd tried to follow sighed, bowed his head, and rose up again, ready for whatever the pair had decided lay ahead for them. They turned and silently began to follow the horde. 

* * * 

The hare stood back to admire his work, and collided right into the escaped Jakob. 

"Ah! What-ho! I say, stand an' fight, sir! Detract ten points, ten points, I say, sah, wot?" Jakob was bowled over, but the hare helped him up. "Y'liddle bounder, what're y'tryin' t'do, injure me bloomin' backside or hide be'ind me jolly old pic from the tyrannical twin otters?" 

Jakob dusted himself, and looked at the picture the irrepressible hare, his best friend, had drawn. "That's a masterpiece,Tryffen! ....Um, help me out an' tell me what it is." The hare Tryffen huffed indignantly. 

"It's bally old Martin th'bloomin' Warrior! What's it look like, a duck boilin' its head in a kettle?" Jakob cleared his throat to hide his sniggers, and said seriously, 

"Actually, I wanted to find you because there's been a creature found out in th'woods. I know you'll be, y'know, as interested as any woodlander." 

"As in'trested as any woodlander?" he snorted. "Listen, young Jacko me lad, I am a bloomin' woodlander!! I'm just on sabbatical t'write up a review book of the absoballyutely splendid Abbey tucker, then I'm reportin' back to the ould mater back in Salamandastron." Jakob eyed him, and chuckled. The hare, still half in his winter coat, was striking a noble pose. "Enough o'that, you've heard it all b'fore, wot wot? Let's get out an' see what this beast thingummy is bally up to! Disturbin' th'peace, I should say, wot!" He dashed down Great Hall, abandoning his drawing. 

Tryffen wasn't completely bluffing. He had been sent from the mountain stronghold of Salamandastron on the coast by the current Badger Lord, Antisle Rawnblade the Fiery, "named for his jolly old great-great-great wotevah grandaddy," to stay with the Abbeybeasts, for reasons only Antisle knew and would not reveal to Tryffen or anyone else in the ciphered scroll he sent accompanying him. 

* * * 

A whisper of amazement ran through the small curious army as they saw the creature. It was covered in a light dusting of snow: its long, bright red hairs blew as though it was dead. 

"Goodness," the Abbot exclaimed to Dolores. "If that is a wolf, it is larger than I ever imagined." The badger nodded. 

"She looks larger than I am. Though from old experience, I believe she will be a friend and not a foe." 

"If she's alive," Michael added. "She doesn't appear to be breathing." Strapped to his side was the great sword, in case of hostility. Jakob and Tryffen pushed their way to the front and stopped, amazed. The hare had just overheard the last part of the abbey warrior's sentence, and added softly, 

"If I may, sah, if you'll notice, there's bally hot air comin' out've 'er jolly old hooter. The young gel is most definitely alive, though she don't look too chipper." 

"She's movin'!" a young hedgehog squeaked. "Lookit!!" Indeed, the creature's lips were moving, and she appeared to saying something. Michael held up a paw and ventured toward her, ever mindful of the rows of merciless teeth that showed through. He vaguely began to hear her words. 

"Oh Poppa please don't go! Snowangel could do so much better! Officer, I saw them: they got Paula and-and--" The wolf let out an anguished cry that startled everyone and mothers hurried to cover the eyes and ears and mouths of the terrified Dibbuns, or Abbey children. Her legs began moving as if trying to fend something off; her eyes opened and closed in spasms: they were wide and green and fearful. Michael, unable to control his insatiable curiosity, had been moving closer with every phrase, when he finally made up his mind. He straightened. 

"Okay, somebody try and help me: we'll get her back to the Abbey where Sister Joan can examine her. In the meantime, Fiona," he looked at the shivering otter, "I want you to see what you think we could do for this poor creature." She nodded and crept up toward the thrashing beast, and tried soothing her. She stroked the long, matted fur in an attempt to calm her and, even in her unconscious state, comfort her. It worked: almost immediately the wolf was asleep, exhausted. Merrill had to whistle. 

"She has the calmin' paws of our ould mother, bless 'er heart. I never knowed anybody else that could heal a soul so quickly an' so well." Dolores, the Skipper of Otters, his son Wynnstream, Tryffen, and Michael stayed behind as they lifted the red-haired wolf off the ground and trailed the procession of Abbeydwellers back to their red-stoned sanctuary.   
  



	3. II

Sister Joan pursed her lips as she looked over the peaceful body, breathing a bit unevenly. 

"She still doesn't look too good: see here, she's been fighting, and was obviously overpowered and torn up." She pointed to the cruel, long slashes along her side; the fur on top, matted together by blood, had been washed and finally had had to be cut off. A small gathering of the Abbot, Michael, Dolores, Brother Neil, Joan the Infirmary Sister, and another young mousemaid named Sheryl, a visiting apprentice healer from another abbey far to the East, stood around the four mattresses that had had to be put together to accommodate the creature. "She also looks like she took a pretty big fall, into water, judging by how tender her side seems to be." Joan leaned forward, and began washing the wounds. The wolf flinched, and seemed to stiffen. "I know, it hurts, it stings, but it's for the best," she whispered. 

"Aaauuughhh....Please, no more..." Sheryl jumped to attention from a corner, having been washing linens. 

"What?! Who said that? Joan, was that you?" 

The good sister furrowed her brow, confused. "No, certainly not." 

"Water...I beg you please, give me water..." 

"There it is again. It must be her." Sheryl nodded toward the wolf. She walked over, drying her paws on her apron, and knelt down toward her head. The stranger's eyes were half-opened and crusted at the edges. "Water? Did you say you wanted water?" The wolf nodded and pleaded in what seemed to be a mix of exhaustion and delirium. 

"Yes, yes...please..." Sister Joan had hurried over with a pitcher. The wolf achily pulled herself up and gulped the water with desperate greed. They watched in amazement. When she had twice emptied the jar, she smacked her lips a little and sighed contentedly. She leaned back against some pillows piled against the head of the bed, wiping her eyes with a partially bandaged paw. She gazed in wonder around the infirmary. "W-where am I?" Dolores leaned down. 

"You're in the infirmary of Redwall Abbey: you're perfectly safe. We found you over by the creek yesterday. I'm Dolores, the Abbey Mother." The wolf's head craned up and in more astonishment gazed around the room. 

"How good my fortune is to be found by the good creatures of Redwall," she whispered in awe. She turned her head back to the silent crowd. "I am Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer, daughter of Colvin and Derynai of the Tundralake Trybe." She fell silent. In a choked voice, she continued, "I am alone now in my claim to the Trybe of Tundralake, it seems." The Abbot shuffled forward and placed a paw on hers. 

"Tori, my child, we are here to help you with whatever needs you have. If you wish, we will listen to your story." She looked up at him with bright eyes. 

"You must be the Father Abbot." He nodded modestly. 

"I am." Tori put her paw on top of his in a grasp of an almost handshake. 

"Seasons back, a friend of ours from Holt Farnell-On-The-Sea, a young otter called Waterback Streamfleet must have visited you on her way to Southsward. Did she ever speak of the Songdreamers over the plains?" Brother Neil, as always, had the answer. He ventured from the background. 

"I remember her: young Wynnstream was determined to go with her before she left, but he was but a few seasons out of infancy," he chuckled. Then the brother grew serious. "I remember her speaking of them, and tried to describe what they were, but never could. Was that your family, Tori?" She looked at the floor. She shook at some inner feeling, and spoke softly, almost in a whisper. 

"It was not only my family, but a huge city full of us. In the Northlands, we have built vast towns, beautiful cities made of stone. My family lived in Leedsdown. The other large city is called Manchester." She stopped, and drooped. "Now it is all lost. 

"We lived for our music: everyone had their own song. That's the way wolves are. You see, nothing was more important to us than our music. 

"My family was of the ruling power, but they were wise and kind: they never oppressed or took over the Trybe. We had many families of us wolves." Her voice began to tremble slightly. "There were many bands of foxes that lived in a part east of our chartered city territory, called the Badlands, which are stark, barren, and poor. Their leader is a huge vixen, called Shang Widowmaker: she and her two daughters command that huge horde of vermin." Her eyes grew fierce with an unnamed and unbridled fury. "Half a season ago it must have been--no, it cannot have been that long...." She coughed feebly, but went on. "They attacked our city, and massacred us all. I know not of anyone other than myself who may have survived. 

"After they killed everything and everyone I ever loved, my father, my mother, my two sisters Paula and Leah, my brother Peter, they burned everything that stood for my life. Our whole city, seven hundred summers old, in flames, kissing the sky like trees, full of death--" Tori let out a strangled sob, and could not continue. Her whole body shook with tears: Dolores could not stand seeing a creature so tortured, and bent down and hugged her with all her being. 

"Tori, come back! It's all right, you're here, you're alright..." Tori's two burning emeralds stared back at her as she shook her head and stiffened in blind anger. 

"I'm not all right. It's not all right. Things will not be right until I have slain Shang Widowmaker and her daughters and her whole band of vermin. Not until then will I be able to rest with the thought that innocent creatures aren't being persecuted by such merciless villains, such-such--" Something stopped her from continuing. "Please leave me be alone for a while," she finally said after heaving and gasping several deep, heavy gulps of air. The Abbot bowed. 

"As you wish, my child." He and the crowd of Abbeybeasts left the room. Sheryl glanced back at Tori as she left: the poor dear was sobbing her life out. She gently closed the door behind her and softly walked down toward the orchard. She had not heard of the great invasion. She desperately hoped that these foxes stayed far from the northeastern cliffs... As she walked, she fell onto a conversation the Abbot and Brother Neil. 

"So that is what a Songdreamer is. Funny, I always just assumed they were mice like us." Sheryl smiled and chuckled at the Abbot's naivete. 

* * * 

Paul Braunhayr leaned against a tree. "Y'know, it's gettin' late. Think we should find a place t'pack inta?" 

John O'Lennain yawned and put away his guitar. "Nah, th'sun's still pretty high. We could get a little further today." 

"No! Wait, don't go!" called a third voice from the woods. Paul's ears perked up and his already huge eyes widened. 

"Ringo, that you, mate?" Another wolf, much smaller than Paul and John, dragged a nearly unconscious fourth one into the clearing. 

"I'd guess so. C'mon, let's 'elp George, they really beat th'drums out've 'im." 

* * * 

"Sheryl?" Tori moved over to the edge of her bed in the infirmary as the mousemaid entered. 

"Oh, Tori, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." Tori was a little excited. 

"Oh no, I've been awake for quite a while. In fact, I just wanted to tell you, I feel all better and everything. I think I can check myself out." A week had passed quickly. The wolfmaid had spent most of it sleeping. 

Sheryl walked over and examined her. "You're right!" she said, her eyes wide in amazement. "You're all healed up." Her eyes darted around the room: it was empty. "I think I can run away from my duties here for once to give you a tour of our abbey." Tori jumped off the bed and stood up. No one had ever seen her at her full height: she was a little taller than an average male otter. 

"Fabulous! I've been wanting to see your abbey since I was little!" Sheryl laughed a little as she led her out into a corridor. 

"Actually, it's not mine at all. I'm just an apprentice." Tori seemed interested. 

"Really? Where are you from?" 

"Mohaercrest Abbey, on the Cliffs on the northeastern coast," she explained. "It was founded not twenty seasons ago. I was sent here to Redwall to learn medicine from their Sisters and Brothers. They're absolutely the best." 

"I'm testament to that," Tori smiled toothily. As they walked down a winding staircase, Tori's bright green eyes caught something in a corner. Leaving the mouse, she wordlessly raced down the stairs toward it. Her face lit up like nothing Sheryl had ever seen. "A piano!" she breathed. "They have a piano!" Sheryl had never even noticed the run-down old thing. Tori lifted up a lid in the front, where she was sitting on a bench she'd pulled up: inside was a boggling number of dusty black and white keys. The wolf closed her eyes momentarily, as if at some buried, traumatic memory. But she shook it off, and spread her paws. She began playing a lovely, complex melody. "This is so out of tune it hurts," she murmured, frowning, and, scampering around the odd wooden chest, opened the back. Sheryl stood in a stupor, watching. 

"Hold on a minute," she stuttered. "I'm going to go ask something." Tori nodded, and continued her strange behavior. Sheryl ran to find the Abbot. When she did, she led him up to the secluded corridor. He watched, amazed, as the wolf looked up from the back of the huge mystery box, what she'd called a piano. 

"Good morning, Father Abbot," Tori said cheerfully, a new life seemingly having entered her. She smiled and straightened up. He returned her greeting, looking at her fur that had suddenly grayed to one ten times her seasons with dust. "I have a question," she continued. "Do you have any idea where you got this piano? It's one of the best kinds that are made, but it's been a little, ah, unnoticed." The Abbot adjusted his glasses. 

"A piano! So that's what it is. It's been here for seasons, I don't know, probably since Abbot Saxtus's time." Sheryl whistled. "I'll go ask Brother Neil to look it up in the records: we'll probably find something out there." 

"Thanks, Father Abbot!" Tori said gratefully, and went back to her work. 

* * * 

"What's that?" Brother Neil asked, his eyes wide. He nearly dropped the huge volumes he was hefting up the stairs with the Abbot and Sheryl. The sound that was drifting down the stairwell was like nothing they'd ever heard. They heard Tori's voice, softly singing something. 

"...They say that, your demons, can't go there. So I got me, some horses, to ride on, to ride on, as long as your army, keeps perfectly still..." Such a beautiful interlude followed as they almost didn't dare to venture up and see what was going on, lest they shatter the spell. Tori was sitting on the bench, her paws suddenly long, nimble dancers. She saw them, though, and stopped and stood up, her face flushing. Before she had a chance to blubber, though, they heard shouts below. 

"Hey, let us in! Let us in, please! We've got an injured beast with us!" Tori looked out the window and gasped. Wordlessly, she jumped away from the piano and ran down the winding staircase. As she leapt out into the bright sunshine, followed by the three panting Abbeydwellers, she stood in the middle of the thawing orchard, watching Michael and Skipper talk from the walls. As she listened, her jaw dropped, and she scampered up next to them. 

"I know that accent!" she told them without explaining, and leaned over the edge to have a look. "Hey, guys! Tell me, where d'you hail from?" The leader, an average sized beast, looked fiercely up at her. He ceased pounding on the gates and yelled, 

"Come on, what d'we look like, bloody vermin?" His voice rose angrily. "Leedsdown Tundralake, woman! We're from TUNDRALAKE!!" he howled. Tori turned to the amazed Warrior. 

"Open the gates, these are survivors." They obeyed, and soon three wolves hustled in, supporting another, who looked quite worse for wear. Skipper explained the delay. 

"We couldn't tell what they where," he said bashfully. "From the looks of it, they could've been foxes or anything: they're all different colors an' all, see." By then, most of the Abbey had curiously gathered around. They stood, listening to the energetic quartet speaking in an almost indecipherable accent. 

"What are they saying?" the Abbot whispered to Brother Neil. 

"I've never heard it before," the Recorder said, shaking his head in amazement. "But I may know what it is. I think this is what is called Scouse. It's a far Northern dialect, seacoast rather than mountain, though." Tori had been talking with them, asking about her home. The biggest one was shaking his head sadly. Tori seemed to shrink miserably at the news he was obviously bringing her. Dolores, Fiona, and Merrill rushed up. 

"Here, let us help you," Dolores implored of the injured wolf. 

"I'm not goin' anywhere without me mates," he said with determination. The one who'd yelled up from the gates punched him lightly. 

"Don't be stupid, George. They're good docs 'ere. Fix y'up real nice." He looked up at the badger, his face radiating concern. "You _will _get 'im better, won't yeh?" Fiona patted him on the back to reassure him and chuckled. 

"Don't worry, matey, we'll 'ave yore friend up an' dancin' about afore you know it." The wolf nodded, a little skeptical, and stepped back and let the trio escort his friend up to the infirmary. After he'd gone, Tori turned to the remaining three. 

"So, at least I know I'm not alone. What are your names?" The big one winked and introduced his pals. 

"I'm Paul Braunhayr, that talkative lad over there is the famous Ringo Starr, and me shy retirin' friend with th'crossed eyes is John O'Lennain. Th'lad y'took in is George, George Flantyr. We know who you are, though, miss," he said respectfully, with a courtly nod of his head. "You're Tori Rubyhaer, who woulda been th'next ruler had that scum not destroyed everythin'." 

"What district were you guys in?" she inquired, curious. "I don't know if I've even seen you, and I didn't exactly live trapped inside that gilded prison." She shook her head. John replied, a little bitterly, 

"I'm not surprised. We're just workin' class heroes from th'streets, missus. It doesn't take a genius like me," here he winked roguishly, "t'reckon that one out." She giggled and pushed him a little. 

As the crowds eventually drifted away, and as the Abbot announced that a great meal, the best that could be made on such short notice, would be prepared, Paul and Ringo wandered off to explore the fabled abbey. Tori almost hadn't noticed John lingering tentatively behind her until he slid up next to her and smiled. 

"Well, it'll be a good three hours or so b'fore the tuck's dished out, I guess. D'you, ah, wanna do somethin'? You c'n surely show me 'round better than I could." He chuckled. "I'd get lost in th'great bloody place. Wouldn't find me f'weeks!" She was immediately hooked by his infectious charm. Her paws were still itching, though, after having discovered that piano. 

"I do, in fact, have something I've been contemplating for quite a while. Come with me," she commanded lightly, and bounded toward the stairway. John bowed, impressed with her character, before catching up with her. 

"Your wish is my command, Your Most Beautiful and Serene Majesty." he whispered to himself. 

* * * 

The two wolves sat closely together, constricted by the small amount of space the bench Tori had found offered. She set her paws on the keys, and took a breath. John watched, transfixed, as she began singing a sweet melody. 

"Baker, baker, bake me a cake. Make me a day, make me whole again..." She hummed a little bit, warming up. She made him jump, as her tempo changed rapidly. "I don't believe I went tooooo, faar." She went into a well-known song she'd written, called "Past The Mission". John knew it, and added his backing vocals to the chorus. She looked at him, pleasantly surprised that he had a good voice. She came to her favorite part, though, and entered her own world. 

"Heeey. They found a body. Not sure it was his, still they're using his name and she, gave him shelter. Somewhere, I know she knows. Somewhere, I know she knows. Some things, only she knows...." 

* * * 

Poe was an inconspicuous figure among the more brawny of the ferrets, but she was nonetheless Widowmaker's top officer. She was deceptively scrawny; tall, but seemingly too thin to inflict any real damage to anyone. She slithered over to Divvilsbain, one of her spies, who was guffawing with some of his mates around a skimpy campfire just behind the boundaries of the forest they'd entered. 

"Come with me. Shang's givin' us a new assignment." The fox's face fell slightly, disappointed to be pulled away from his friends, but reluctantly stood up and collected his fighting knives. 

Anastasia greeted the pair at the door. "Mother has been expecting you for quite some time," she sniffed nastily. 

"Aw, shut it, you double-eyed brat," Poe snapped. "It's colder'n' a body out there. While you three were sitting on your royal derrieres we've been trudgin' through this mess for months." The Widowmaker's younger daughter pursed her lips, and huffily led them to Shang's ornate headquarters. At the curtains that were draped across the door, ransacked from the Trybe's palace before they burned it, with all its court inside, the white fox signaled for them to wait there. 

"I'll see if she's in a negotiable mood," she announced pertly. 

"Just hurry up," Divvilsbain muttered impatiently, eager to return to his buddies. 

Passing Tatyanna said smugly, "I wouldn't be in such a hurry." 

"What I wouldn't give for an hour with those two nuisances," Poe growled. "I'd show 'em who'd be in a negotiable mood..." 

"Get your filthy hinds in here and stop shedding on my carpets, you swine!" came a scream from behind the drapery. Tatyanna scampered out, yelling curses at her mother. 

"Powerhungry wench! Tawdry dictator!" 

"As if you aren't!" Shang shrieked in reply. "I'm your mother, don't you talk to me that way!" she simpered and chuckled as her two confederates stumbled in. 

The Widowmaker was decked out in all her cruel lavishness. She lay on layers of pillows and rugs, watching smoky incense curl around the bedposts of the canopied bed of Colvin Wolflord and his wife, Derynai Fioraja. She closed her green eyes luxuriously and breathed deeply in content. She then opened her emeralds and stared right into Poe and through Divvilsbain. 

"The spring thaw is close, is it not?" 

"It is already well underway, Widowmaker. The birds are singing away the ice and snow and the snowdrops are battling with the streams of melted water." 

Shang smiled slightly. "Very poetic." She sighed contemplatively. "Hmm, well. This southern weather, it is very strange here." Shang stood up: she had no need for ornamental weaponry. The wolves fought with their teeth and claws, she now with her deceit and silver tongue. She didn't fight for herself with the horde, but she was ruthless when need be. There were rumors she didn't bother to stop of her defeating an adult male polar bear once. Its skin lay sprawled on the floor, and she stepped unnoticing on its head as she made her way over to a chair. 

"We are not moving, though, yes?" she purred, her slight accent like chunks of hard icebergs. 

"You had not decided to give us that order, Shang," Poe told her, her contempt for the fox well concealed. 

"Ahhh, yes, well...I think it is time that we head toward this southland that your deceased prisoner yearned so for. We are going no closer by sitting here." Divvilsbain became edgy. He knew that the prisoner she spoke of, a mouse with a strange, muddled accent, had died over the past few days while in his keeping. 

Shang chuckled, playing with her claws, sensing the fox's fear. "There is no need to fear for your life and wellbeing, fox. You are too valuable an asset to me." She turned to the ferret. "We have remained inert for much too long. Poe, I want you to fetch my daughters. Tell them to sound the southward Call." 

"Will that be all, Shang?" Shang waved her off unceremoniously. 

"Yes, thank you for your concern, Poe. Leave now." The ferret bowed, and exited. The vixen turned back to Divvilsbain. "I asked you to remain because there is a favor I wish to ask of you." The stout knifethrower stood to attention, surprised by Shang's casualness and trust. 

"Anything you ask of me, Widowmaker." Shang arose, her eyes wild like a storm. She smiled glowingly. 

"I want you to take Silverweed, that wolf we took prisoner, with you. Keep her on a leash, so the little wretch won't try and run away to Manchester. I want to have her scout the area for runaways and Journeyers. Make her smell them out like a hound." 

"And what shall I do when I find them?" he asked thickly. Shang's eyes roared with a primitive, unleashed glee. Her slick voice echoed around the room like water dripping from an icicle in a cave. 

"Kill them. Kill them all. I want no trace of them in this area, and I want it to last!" 

* * * 

The two brothers were singing to keep their spirits up. They were strong, sleek young wolves, fresh on their way to Redwall Abbey from their native home of the great city of Manchester. 

"So now what this time?" the smaller wolf, the elder, asked his brother. His lithe sibling, his heavily-lidded, unearthly blue eyes considering, broke out into a raucous, 

"Maybe I don't really wanna know how your garden grows,   
'cause I just wanna fly.   
Lately did you ever feel the pain of the morning rain   
that soaks you to the bone? 

Maybe I just wanna fly, wanna live don't wanna die.   
Maybe I just wanna breathe, maybe I just don't believe.   
Maybe you're the same as me, we see things they'll never see."

His brother joined him on the last line. "You and I, we gonna live forever...." 

The smaller one nodded. "That's a good one." His little brother beamed. 

"That song's a work of genius! Better than most of yer others." 

"You sayin' th'rest of my songs're shite?" 

"Yeah, if yer in the spirit t'admit that they are!" he fired back, his eyes gleaming. The older wolf leapt at him, snarling, and they engaged in a tremendous struggle. Suddenly, from a nearby grove of trees, they heard a feeble yelp, 

"RUN!" Another, painful one followed it, after which a huge, molting fox charged out of the underbrush and sprang on the two. The younger wolf let out a cry of surprise. Unlike them, this fox wasn't jesting.   
  



	4. III

The four able survivors were lounging on the western abbey walls, oblivious to the slight chill of mid spring. The afternoon was warm and fresh, with the smell of full honeysuckle on the breeze. They sat recollecting fond memories of the vanquished city of Leedsdown. The view around them was spectacular. Ringo was admiring it when he suddenly noticed a flickering light to the south. 

"Hey, look. Someone's down there, looks like wolffolk." Paul and Tori joined him, and peered down. Two wolf-like figures were barely visible through the naked trees: they were apparently sitting around a small fire. Paul's brow furrowed. 

"I dunno, they look sorta like coyotes t'me." 

"From here, though," John pointed out. 

"I'll go down and check," Tori said, and before anyone could stop her, which Paul and Ringo tried to do, she'd darted down the walls, out the gates, and into the undergrowth and was slinking toward the campfire. As she neared, she heard them talking. 

"Aye, Noel, so yer sure it's 'slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball'? What kinda shite lyric's that?" 

"Just learn it, Liam, or I'll just 'ave t'claim it." 

"Like 'ell you will!" the one called Liam shouted, bolting up. Noel calmly told him to sit down and sing. Rebellious and scornful, Liam obeyed, and relaxed. Tori made a signal to the others to come over, but be inconspicuous. When she turned her head back, she was suddenly faced with the towering Noel. 

"Here now, 'oo might you be? Doesn't matter, c'mon over: we need you t'tell uz somethin'." He grabbed her arm and dragged her over. Terrified and stunned, she stumbled over to where he led her and fell down onto a makeshift bench. In the dancing firelight, she moved only her wide open eyes to see who her captors were. The Abbey was only a stone's throw away. She could easily call for help... 

Untensing a bit when she saw they were wolves like herself, she began to wonder where they were from. They didn't sound like anyone native to Leedsdown or the boroughs around it, she thought, listening to them argue a bit more. "Miss? Forgive me, we forgot to introduce ourselves." He bowed his head in a respectful nod. "We're the Gallagher brothers of Manchester. I'm Noel and that's our Liam." Liam seemed to fancy Tori, and wasn't shy about it. Tori disregarded his gazes, though. 

"There're more of you?" she asked in a near whisper, her heart racing wildly. Noel chuckled, and ignored the question. Lifting up his guitar, he picked out a tune, and Liam began to softly accompany him. 

"How many special people change?   
How many lives are livin' strange?   
Where were you while we were getting high?   
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,   
where were you while we getting high? 

"Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,   
in a champagne supernova in the sky.   
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,   
in a champagne supernova, a champagne supernova in the sky."

He noticed out of the corner of his eye three more wolves approaching cautiously. He kept right on singing as if they didn't exist. 

"Wake up the dawn an' ask her why.   
A dream, a dream, she never dies.   
Wipe that tear away now from your eye. 

Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,   
where were you while we getting high?"

He raised his head and bared his soul to the star-dusted night sky. 

"Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,   
in a champagne supernova in the sky.   
Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide,   
in a champagne supernova, a champagne supernova in the sky. 

" 'Cause people believe that they're gonna get away for the summer.   
But you and I, will never die,   
the world's still spinnin' 'round,   
y'don't know whyyyyyyy! Whyyyy, whyyy whyyyyyyyyyyy?"

He took a breath and closed his eyes, and gazed up at the sky while Noel deftly played on. When that was over, Liam opened his heavily-lidded blue eyes again and sang tenderly to Tori, 

"How many special people change?   
How many lives are livin' strange?   
Where were you while we were getting high?   
Slowly walkin' down the hall, faster than a cannonball,   
where were you while we getting high? Weeeee were getting high? Weeeee were getting hiiiiiigh, weee were getting high...."

Noel's accompanying "Ooo"s were lullaby-like in the background. As it was winding down, Noel stopped and dropped his guitar, surprised, and leapt up, staring at the three who'd just joined them and were sitting by quietly, listening. 

"Fook! I know you! You're the bloody fuckin' Beatles! God!" 

"An' you two are th'most talented bastard's I've ever heard!" John replied calmly. "Who're you guys with? I'm almost positive I've 'eard yeh before. I loved it." Liam was grinning wildly. 

"The Beatles, lovin' us. D'you 'ear that, Noely? Bloody amazin'!" 

"D'you like us that much?" Paul asked, surprised. 

"We're totally bloody mad for yeh!" Noel cocked his head. "Where's George?" 

"He was hurt pretty bad by them foxes. He's at the Abbey." 

"Redwall?" Liam asked laconically. 

"Yeah, s'matter of fact," Tori answered. I wonder how he is. A cold wind blew from above, and she suddenly felt a pang in her chest. He was not well. 

" 'Cause we were on our way to Redwall," Noel remarked off-handedly. "Our mam threw us out of our house an' told us t'go south there. Said a friend o' hers lived there." 

"You're practically at the foot of the damn thing," John informed them, his eyes dancing at their blindness. Liam jumped up on their log and ogled for a look and finally spotted the monolithic red house. 

"Ah, yeah, guess yer right. See Noely, told yeh you were gone in the 'ead. Got to get glasses, you 'ave." Noel ignored his little brother's snide comment. Tori squinted at Liam's chest. 

"What happened there?" she asked, concerned. The object of her attention was a patch of matted brown fur. Silvery scars and crusty scabs were slightly visible. Liam fell silent. Noel shifted uncomfortably, and spoke for him. 

"We, met some unexpected company." 

"Oh really?" John asked. 

"Fox," Noel confided. "Armed to t'teeth with knives. He just came outta nowhere an' began tearin' our Liam all t'pieces." 

"Me big bro got 'im good, though, didn't yeh?" 

Noel was serious. "We had to kill him. Believe me, he would've us if he'da gotten th'chance." He shuddered at the memory. That poor, thin she-wolf. She just...stumbled out into the clearing and died, right there. How they ran.... 

"Woulda been a hard day for Mam, eh Noely?" 

"She really threw you out?" Paul asked, wide-eyed. 

"No, she more told us t'stop stickin' 'round th'house, that there was a whole wide world out there outside th'streets o' Manchester. We left with a sack o' sandwiches, cookies, an' her clingin' on t'us fer dear life," Liam informed them. "She's a good lass, our mam. Our dad's another story." 

"An' our brother," Noel reminded him. "But e's dead, an' not much we can do 'bout that." Tori burst out in a strangled sob at the word 'dead'. Paul and Liam were immediately at her side. 

"What's wrong, love?" 

Liam put a comforting paw round her shoulder. "Now look what yeh've done, Noel, yeh sick twat." 

"I did?! Twas you that brought this whole shite issue up!" Liam growled and lunged at his brother. They began fighting wildly. 

Tori sat, smiling a little despite her tears. She suddenly stood up and barked, "Hey!" The brothers untangled themselves and looked at her. "You can come if you want. We've got plenty of hot food." 

"Food! Now we 'aven't 'ad a good meal in months!" Tall and lanky Liam was already racing toward the Abbey, his fire and newfound friends comically forgotten. 

* * * 

Wynnstream peered down from the gatetops. "Gosh, you all sure are lookin' like a proper liddle pack there! Who're these two?" he called good-naturedly. Liam answered for himself. 

"Liam Gallagher, and that's our kid Noel, me brother." 

"I assume these two 'aven't taken y'all pris'ner, now 'ave they?" Wynnstream chuckled as he heaved at the lever that operated the great wooden gates. 

* * * 

George had been reclining in the warmth the temperamental sun had decided to bless them with. His lazy eyes panned the view of the orchard where that Jakob was laughing merrily and playing a romantic game of tag with a beautiful meadow mouse called Julia. The young mouse always visited him, would always be enraptured by his descriptions of life in Leedsdown. His thoughts turned, and he noticed the gates opening. Two strangers wandered into the Abbey, wide-eyed. He squinted at them, and pulled himself upright to have a better look of them. 

They were certainly scruffy, and they looked like they could fight-- 

(lord knows they'll be needing it they'll need all the fight they have) 

--if need be. The larger one had a scar painful just to look at on his chest. Fur was just beginning to really conceal it, but George knew-- 

(Shang's gotten at this one she has) 

--these two could only be brothers. They shared the same menacing undertone and deep blue eyes, heavily-lidded and arrogant. 

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the messages. But that never worked 

(it will for now i'll make it) 

. 

(talk to me!) 

Oh all right. D'you think they're Journeyers? 

(couldn't say fer sure gotta be though look at the fright in their eyes blue like fury though god knows they'll need it in autumn) 

"Fates an' seasons!" the larger of the brother wolves yelped. "It's George Flantyr! It's actually George Flantyr!!" The pair reverently approached him. Noel was close to groveling and prostrating himself as he said, 

"You are, like, one of my all-time heroes! You're one of the three greatest guitarists of Tundralake!" Flattered by the unexpected hero-worship, he asked, in an attempt to sway the conversation another direction, 

"Who're you? I think I've seen you somewhere before." 

"Noel Gallagher," he said, drawing himself up proudly. "My old man was the director of the Manchester Symphony. Mam always said I looked like 'im most." 

George whistled admirably. He closed his eyes, and then opened them, asking, "D'you play guitar?" 

"Oh, every day," Noel swore. "I'm a fanatic." 

"Aye, I'll vouch fer that," his brother added smugly in the background. 

George smiled wanly, as that was all his present condition would allow. "Then we'll 'ave t'jam sometime, won't we." 

Liam turned around to Ringo and commented out of the blue, "You know, I somehow always seemed to have imagined you all sort of the same size." 

"Oh, no," Ringo chuckled. "Paul an' George are just naturally big, and I'm th'runt of me litter. John's the only normal one between us!" 

Liam gazed up at thick ramparts of the Abbey. "My, my, though, you've certainly found yersel's a grand ol' shack, 'aven't yeh?" 

"Sure 'ave. Twas only luck that brought us 'ere though. Mind you, if they'd a built this thing five yards further 'way, George woulda died on us." 

"Umm, just wonderin', miss," Noel was asking courteously of Dolores. "D'you 'ave any recollections of one Amberanne Gallagher? She's certainly told us gobs about you." Dolores's face lit up. 

"Amberanne! My goodness, it's been seasons since I saw her! Moved somewhere up north after our traveling days, as I recall." 

Noel nodded. "She sure did. She's me an' Liam's mam. Lives up in Manchester Tundralake, just out've th'wake of the invasion by th'foxes." He noticed Tryffen trying to charm a basket of candied chestnuts from Friaress Elena. "Say, s'that one o'them southern 'ares, what, what talks funny? Never seen one of them up close an' personal b'fore." Tryffen's ears shot up indignantly. 

"Here now, talks funny? Listen t'him, sounds like a bloomin' molechappie himself! Talks funny, huh." 

Noel chuckled at the hare's mutterings. Dolores nodded. "Yes, that one's on loan from Salamandastron from a brother of mine, the resident Badger Lord, actually." 

"Really?" the wolf inquired. "Well, my my. Seems this Salamandastron's not a myth after all." 

The good badger was confused, and a little peeved. "Salamandastron? A myth? Not likely! It protects all of Mossflower country and is a magical place. The whole history of Mossflower is written there, past and future." 

Noel shook his head. "Well then, I'll take it you've never heard of Angliaterryn. Not too far from uz, actually." He ambled toward Great Hall, following the crowd of others. "So, tell me about this Salamandastron. I've only heard stories 'bout it." 

* * * 

Caxton Sbioann Miahcris stood solemnly before the current Badger Lord of Salamandastron, Antisle Rawnblade the Fiery. The strange arctic hare's cloud-gray eyes remained averted to the ceiling as the enormous badger examined the scroll he'd been presented from the stronghold of Angliaterryn. 

Antisle swayed his head back and forth slowly. "No one has heard from the northern white bears in many seasons." He sat back and sighed. "Many, many seasons. They were a legend when Old Lord Brocktree came to this mountain." 

Caxton smiled slightly. "I assure you," he replied in a broad, heavy accent, "they are certainly there, Lord." 

Antisle sighed, and turned to the hare to his left. "Quinn, tell me, how did you come across this ambassador?" he asked in a hushed tone. 

"He came on foot, Milord," the well-built captain replied. "Long Patrol escorted 'im 'ere. They found 'im fairly far north, fer 'ere, but 'e's apparently come from a lot further." The badger looked back at Caxton. 

"Tell me, who is the head of Angliaterryn? They have been lost to the ages this far south." 

"Governor Creenhlay, Lord. Yellowback Creenhlay." 

Antisle bowed his head, changing the subject. "This is very serious. If Shang Widowmaker's horde is indeed headed in our direction, we have quite a struggle ahead of us." He looked up again with tears threatening to bead his brown eyes. "And you say that Leedsdown Tundralake has been vanquished?" 

"Yes, and possibly Manchester as well," the arctic hare replied sadly. 

"Great seasons and ancestors above..." he murmured. "Are there any survivors at all?" Caxton glanced at his feet. 

"There...have been rumors through the countryside that I have traveled through, of a great red singing wolf. It could possibly...nay, I dare not hope too greatly..." He turned his head away. 

"What? Who?" 

Caxton looked back at Quinn and Antisle. "It is well-known fact that Colvin Wolflord and Derynai Fioraja are both slain. Their daughters Paula and Leah and their son Peter were accounted for as dead as well, but Tori Rubyhaer is still an enigma..." 

Quinn grew excited. "An' you're sayin' that this great singin' wolfgel could be her?" 

"She is our only hope for salvation, it seems." Antisle rested his head on a monstrous paw. "Caxton, could you accompany me? I hate to ask anything of you after your long journey, but I feel you have the missing piece in which to help me." 

Caxton bowed his head. "Certainly, Lord." 

* * * 

The far northern messenger followed Antisle through the twisting caverns below the mountain stronghold. His footsteps echoed heavily through the tunnels, as did his heavy breathing. 

"Here, stop here," Antisle whispered. Caxton leaned against the wall of the hall, and squinted at the carvings the badger lord was examining under the firelight. 

"Tell me, why am I to see these?" Caxton questioned, a little frightened. "These are the halls of the future, meant only for badgers to see." 

Antisle shook his head. "What you are looking at are the same prophesies that a mouse, Martin the Warrior of Redwall, gazed upon. Over to my right is the story of Urthstripe the Strong. He rests further down in the passage. Beyond that is the poetry of Sunflash the Mace. This is the history of Mossflower Country and its surrounding areas. But I have never taken the time to look in its skies." 

Caxton was confused. "Sir, pardon me for inquiring, but...what skies?" 

Antisle lifted his head and searched the ceiling. "Here." His eyes flickered over the writing. He squared his jaw. "It seems it is time for Tryffen to come home." He turned back to the hare. "Lord Yellowback should have given you a package. Do you have it?" 

"It hasn't left my side since I departed Angliaterryn." 

"Give it to me and wait here," he commanded. The hare handed him a small stone figurine, old and primitively carved, vaguely resembling a wolf, beset with two emeralds as eyes. Antisle Rawnblade silently disappeared into a corridor. He placed the statuette into an eroded crevice, carved by beasts long ago gone to Dark Forest. The light that shone through the two jewels fell on a simple engraving of a great stone building. A great vermin claw was pointed at it. Antisle squinted. 

"It is Redwall surely," he muttered to himself. He stepped back, though, and examined it. "But there are no trees. Redwall is in a forest....I know of no other Abbey in the region...." His eyes widened. "Mohaercrest," he whispered cryptically. "Sheryl must go home!" 

* * * 

Tori sat alone at the piano, which had been moved down to Great Hall, keeping her footpaw on the soft petal so as not to disturb those sleeping in the dormitories. The plaintive calls of nightbirds echoed through the forest outside. She rested her paws on the smooth, cool keyboard, holding back her crying. Bowing her head in an elegant arch of her neck, she listlessly pressed a low G. 

The tune began to flock together like an image in a cloud. Lyrics wafted down from the rafters, and she captured them as they struggled beneath her tongue. Tori's eyes were red from withheld tears and sleepiness. She watched as spirits appeared, and danced in graceful Russian circles, waltzing like music boxes. A line parted through them, and she arose, expecting by all rights to see her deceased family and the royal court, her beloved life that had been burned and shattered. But no: her jaw slowly dropped as a mouse lead a short procession through the hole of her past. Was it Michael? It certainly looked like him.... 

"Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer," he said at length, with the ease and understanding of a breezy summer day. "Your battle will come soon enough. Enjoy what you have whilst you still have the time to." 

"What right have you to tell me to enjoy while I have it?" she whimpered angrily. "What knowledge have you of war and hatred and loss, Michael? You've never been beyond this Abbey, I'm sure of it!" 

"Michael, backwards through many others," the strange mouse said, the light confident smile never leaving his lips. "Through Mariel and Dandin, through Samkim and Arula, through Bryony and Togget, through countless hares, badgers, otters...." The phantasm bowed his head. "All the way back, even to and beyond Rose, Felldoh, and Gonff. You see, I too once lost everyone and everything." Tori's drooping eyes widened. 

"You must be...." It went understood and unspoken. Martin the Warrior smiled again, his gray eyes shining brightly. 

"Keep your fire, Tori. You will use it to burn out the evil scourge of Shang Widowmaker and her daughters. Tori?" The mouse leaned forward to her, his face suddenly worried. He shook her shoulder. 

"Tori?" The ghosts dissipated, and the northern princess was left staring at another restless soul. Noel, concerned, offered a paw. "C'mon, dear, y've been up harf th'bloody night. Get some sleep, luv." 

* * * 

The white fox paced restlessly through the field. The horde had been deflected off course by unexpected guerrilla attacks. They were now hopelessly tangled in the mountains, and every few days, her sentries were being picked off for food by the mountain eagles and falcons. Unused to the harsh conditions of the peaks and impasses, mutinies were beginning to kindle: she could feel it. 

Poe watched Shang brooding. "Widowmaker, perhaps if we captured some of the inhabitants," she offered, "one of the smaller birds, perhaps, or a marten? They would surely show us maybe a pass or a gap through these infernal mountains?" 

The vicious white fox shook her head. "And where would we find one of these invaluable scouts? No, Polewski," Poe straightened slightly as her full title was used, "we must do this ourselves. I think our only solution, however, is either backing out or trudging through." 

"Shang," the ferret ventured, "the troops, they will not like that either way." 

"I know that! Don't you think I don't know that?!" She sat down on a rock and rested her chin upon a paw. "But what to do, what to do!" Shang arose, and began pacing again. " Hmm, mayhaps I'm just being paranoid. Poe, fetch one of my spies. I need to find a conspiracy before I can destroy it." 

* * * 

Putwer and Shaftclaw were both foxes whose grumblings had exceeded the bounds of each other. Nightly, around their campfires, as they shivered against the high mountain winds and inhospitable ground, mates would gather and share complaints and doubts about the Widowmaker's trek southward. 

"Huh, who's to even say this glorious southland even exists? It's only gotten colder th'further south we've gone!" Shaftclaw growled as he shoved the pine branch into the fire in an attempt to kindle the meager flames. Three other foxes, two weasels, and a stoat coughed and cursed as the stick produced noxious smoke. 

"Garr, learn t'handle a fire properly, dunder'ead!" a weasel, Cawfrent, snarled. 

"Hah, betcha the fox couldn't learn t'do that 'erself," Rankwhisker, the stoat, laughed humorlessly. "While we're freezin' t'death up here, she's probably feastin' wid those two brats of hers in front of a fireplace!" 

Putwer shook his head mournfully. "I tells yeh, t'ain't fair, mates. We're livin' like bloody oarslaves wi' nary a crust betwixt us, an' she probably don't even know up from down t'get us out've here!" 

Cawfrent's companion looked down at his dagger, as it glittered coldly in the chill light. "That fox might be pretty, but I betcha she'd look a lot prettier inside out, wid this between 'er ribs!" 

"An' how's would yer plan on doin' that, Vimple?" 

The weasel looked into the firelight. "Wouldn't be too 'ard. With Poe snawin' away outside 'er tent, and Anastasia an' Tatyanna off amusin' theyselves..." He trailed off suggestively. 

One of the foxes stood up and stretched. "I'm with yeh, mate! That would solve a passle of our problems, an' I'll be party to it." Ribsy then shivered. "But I'm off to a good forty winks afore I do any murderin'. This cold makes th'paw that wolf got at all throbbin'." Stiffly, he made his way to the niche he'd dug out in the snow. 

"Aye, I'm with Ribsy too," Rankwhisker agreed. "I'd rather be dreamin' 'bout some warm island than shiverin' an' plottin' at this hour." The gang was addressed one last time by Shaftclaw. 

"But when we meets 'ere tomorrer, bring yer skinnin' knives an' such. We got's a job ter do, remember that!" 

Cawfrent and Vimple trudged away through the rocks and bone-biting snow. Cawfrent turned to Vimple. "So, should we report t'Widowmaker now?" 

"Nah, maybe we should get Poe first. She'd be easier t'get through to." 

* * * 

The twin beacons of Anastasia and Tatyanna atop a high perch on either side of the vast horde had been long absent. Now they stood on juts of rock above the valley, howling in an unearthly cadence, an echo stolen from the wolves. Instinctively, they silently assembled before the line of flags and skulls perched on spears. 

The widowmaker fox had decked herself out in some of her barbaric finery. She'd capped her fangs in silver, and dyed the area around her eyes jet black, causing her haunting, captivating eyes to stand out even more. A necklace, strung with the teeth and claws of Colvin and Derynai, adorned her neck. 

"Rivenkeepers!" she called. "Bring forth the traitors!!" Seven huge Norwegian rats, each holding a chain lead of one of the campfire would-be assassins, prodded forth Putwer, Shaftclaw, Rankwhisker, Ribsy, and the three other foxes; Hankfur, Neoparn, and Shornear. Each of the trembling vermin had been whipped, maimed, tortured, and beaten. They were now bound together in a slave line. 

"Parade them!" Shang commanded. The horde watched, horrified, as some of their best fighters were dragged through each rank, pleading, tripping, sobbing, and yelping. Above the stunned silence, the leader fox's voice rose. "So, Winterchildren, you see what happens to the fools who doubt me and plot against me! You have called me soft, yes. You have called me lost, and you have said I am losing my grip!" The horde shrank back at her fury. "Well, I may be a mother, but merciful, I am not!" When the Rivenkeepers had made a full circle of the army, the prisoners were brought up onto a ledge above a pond. They cringed away from the edge, ignoring their comrades' stares as they shivered, stumbled, and wailed. 

"SILENCE!" Widowmaker roared. "I am as coldhearted as you soon will be!" One of the Rivenkeeper rats kicked Ribsy, the largest of the group, off the ledge. The unfortunate hordebeasts struggled to stay on the ground, but each slowly fell, linked together and suspended by the chains, and finally they plummeted into the freezing water. "I know something these clods did not, nor did they think I did! I know a way out of here! And we move now!" Her daughters began howling again: Go south. Shang's examples now bobbed in the water, either frozen to death or pitifully beseeching passing mates to help them out. But either way, they were chained to death in two places, and Shang Widowmaker had earned a new title: Coldhearted!   
  



	5. IV

Knocks upon the abbey door were becoming familiar to Wynnstream. He was starting to wonder if the sudden convergence of beasts upon Redwall was some sort of conference of the elders or something. Nevertheless, he abandoned the gatehouse and scampered up to the ramparts. Leaning over the walls, he called, 

"Who are you? Make your business known with Redwall Abbey, please!" 

"Goodness gracious, y'young pug! Wynnstream Pikepaw, son 'o me old messmate Skipper! You've certainly grown up big an' brutish!" Down below, the voice chuckled. "It's Long Patrol, laddie buck. An' tell your Daddy that Lieutenant Colonel Quinn Meadowclary is 'ere, 'long with 'andsome Harry Buckthorn of the honorable Stage Hare line, and Circassia Jangstaw, inheritess of the infamous Rosie Woodsorrel giggle." 

Wynnstream, confused, once again bounded down the well-worn steps from the battlement. He hoped his father would know what the three hares were talking about as he listened to the chatter on the other side of the thick wood gates he hefted open. 

"Whoohahaha!! I say, lads, me ould cuz Tryffen's sure well in fer a bally bowl-over surprise when 'e claps eyes on us!" 

"Cass, just keep that bally chortle bottled up there. These good chaps an' chappesses don't need t'be jolly deafened upon first meetin' yeh." 

"You're such a cad, Harry. Don't worry, I'm sure she'll keep th'bally horses reigned in tight." The otter welcomed them inside, and left to find the abbey leaders. 

"Spittin' image of 'is daddy," Quinn sniffed nostalgically as he waited on the lawn with his two companions. 

* * * 

Skipper raced ahead of Abbot Daniel, Dolores, Michael, and Brother Neil. 

"Quinn! You old sandwalloper! What in shrimp's name're you doin' 'ere?" the otter shouted ahead of him. 

"Skip, y'great boundin' waterhound! Still scarin' babies with y'face, y'big villain?!" The two old friends pounded each other on the backs as they hugged. They bantered on with old jokes from bygone days. Handsome Harry waited politely in the background. Wynnstream, Jakob, Liam, and Tryffen lingered behind them, curious of the newly arrived travelers. 

Cass, however, caught sight of Tryffen. "Tryffen! Is it really you! Whoooohahaha! You've gotten t'be quite a great fat abbeyhare, haven't you!" She scooped him up in a hug. Tryffen squirmed slightly, though secretly enjoying the attention from his cousin. 

"No doubt that it's you though, love. I'm surprised that bally laugh o' yours hasn't sent all th'jolly Dibbuns up in a tizzy!" 

* * * 

The leaders of Redwall Abbey, including the Abbot, Michael, Dolores the Badger Mother, Foremole, the Skipper of Otters, Brother Neil the Recorder, Sister Joan the Infirmary Keeper, and the newly arrived Long Patrol sat around the table at Great Hall. Tori, Paul, John, Noel, Liam, Tryffen, and Sheryl were also present. 

The huge Badger Mother arose and addressed the assembly. 

"Friends, it seems that while life here at our beloved abbey is tranquil and undisturbed, it is not so everywhere in Mossflower. You have all heard by now Tori Rubyhaer's account of how her city was destroyed by Shang Widowmaker and her horde. And our friends John O'Lennain and Paul Braunhayr have informed us that she is moving south in our direction. They followed Shang for three moons until they halted just north of the mountains and broke camp. They are far enough away from an abbey in the general area that they presumably have not done it any harm. " To her left, the badger saw Sheryl go stiff. She continued. 

"But the Widowmaker's army is strong. They destroyed the largest city in the northern half of the lands beyond Mossflower, the---tundra, is it?--- the tundra even above the Great Northern Mountains. To our knowledge they are still not moving, but we know very little and it is probably inaccurate by now. There is nothing stopping them from sweeping down into Mossflower." 

The Redwall Council sat, silent and terrified at the thought of that mighty a horde coming to their beloved country. Dolores cleared her throat awkwardly, and readdressed them. 

"This next point may seem irrelevant, but it may also hold the key to preventing the destruction of our own abbey. Father Abbot, I turn matters to you and Brother Neil." 

Daniel arose quietly. "Yes. At the beginning of this previous autumn, Tryffen the hare was sent among our midst from the stronghold of Salamandastron. Dolores's brother, Lord Antisle Rawnblade, sent with him a scroll that was not to be opened until foreign creatures began flocking to Redwall and the season was almost ready to change. Brother Neil?" 

The recorder held a parchment in his paws. "Yes, thank you, Father Abbot. Ahem. Well, this is the first page of the scrolls that Lord Antisle sent with Tryffen. It was all Dolores would translate for me from the Badgerscript, as the other two documents were to be revealed to the rest of us later on. It, um, seems to be a riddle." The stocky mouse adjusted his glasses and began reading the message. 

"Hare who carried scroll from mount   
Go now with these retrievers three.   
Wrought in seasons too far back to count   
Leave this quest to the songdreamers by the sea. 

Healer who teetered on the Cliffs   
Go back, now, before they fall.   
Home may soon be hollow if   
You stay within these walls. 

Hear the warrior with no sword   
Walking backwards to Redwall.   
Daughter of slain Wolflord   
Only you will know their call. 

Seek no more in the Warriors' tombs   
Another came from founder's caves.   
Escorted 'cross a land where great stones loom   
He too seeks to repay what the White One gave." 

After reciting the mysterious poem, Neil looked over his glasses at the assemblage. Tori was weeping, Tryffen held a stricken look on his face, and Sheryl seemed about to protest something. Near Neil, Michael put his forehead into his paw and sighed, "Jakob won't like this." 

Paul was the first one to speak and break the silence. "Well, some of that is easy. I mean, th'first bit is obviously 'bout this Tryffen fella, an' the next is Sheryl." He leaned back in the chair. "As far as that, your guess is pretty much as good as mine." 

" 'Escorted 'cross a land where great stones loom,'" Tori quoted, musing and trying not allow herself to cry again. "I've never seen them, and I was borne by the sea coming here, so I wouldn't know, but I've heard tell of great standing stones in our neck of the woods. Megaliths, ancients tombs or something, built by giants, older than the lands themselves." 

"We came across some of those, didn't we, Noel?" Liam interrupted. "Think we slept underneath 'em a couple time when there weren't nothin' else." 

Noel nodded slowly. "You're right, kid. They're fairly commonplace south 'o Manchester. We're more easterly than you Leedsdown folks: me mam said there's more where we were." 

"You know, I think we've got one of those just west of the Abbey." 

"So our great savior is comin' from there?" Skipper questioned. 

Neil shrugged. "I guess. This must be him: 'hear the warrior with no sword walking backwards to Redwall.' Now that doesn't make much sense, but I do know one thing. When Martin first came to Mossflower country, he was caught by the wildcats living in Kotir. Verdauga decreed that he be kept in the cells, whilst Tsarmina wanted him killed. She was so furious at being overruled that she snapped Martin's sword in half. Until he came to Salamandastron, he wore the broken sword around his neck as a reminder. Maybe that has something to do with it?" 

Michael offered something. " 'Seek no more in the Warriors' tombs, another comes from founder's caves.' Didn't Martin come south from his father's caves on on the northwestern seacoast?" 

"Maybe it's saying that Martin will come back to us, and we won't have to look to the past Warriors for protection," Sister Joan said strangely. 

Abbot Daniel looked at her. "Please, Sister, let's have a little reason. We would, of course, be grateful if the original Martin _were _to come back to us. But, as much as we would wish for it, it cannot be." 

The Infirmary Keeper looked down at her paws, slightly embarrassed. The abbot felt a bit guilty for his chiding, but turned back to the discussion going on with the others. 

Sheryl and Tryffen had banded together, arguing their cases for remaining at the abbey. 

"But Michael! My training isn't even near complete! It takes nearly a season and a half to travel to the Cliffs, not counting whatever I have to do there. And then, no, _if, _I can ever come back, there's still much for me to learn!" 

"You tell 'em, young healer m'gel! What, and me without havin' experienced the full range an' spectrum of bloomin' abbeyscoff!" 

The Warrior was frustrating himself trying to explain. "But it says here in this script, from Salamandastron, no less! that you are both to go to your respective homes at once! We cannot go against--" 

From the sidelines, Liam, ever the rebellious one, muttered "Aww, stuff it, y'old fogey. 'Oo's t'say if they stays 'r goes?" 

Quinn intervened. "Lord Antisle, that's who, young wolfy m'lad. His word's pretty much it in this lay o' th'land." Liam glowered at him momentarily, and then looked the other way. The hare arose. "Ahem, pardon me, but we do 'ave our orders. Tryffen, you're to leave with us in two days time. C'mon now, perk up, laddie buck, think of all the glorious scoff these generous Abbeylads an' lasses will heap on yeh when y'leave!" Through slightly bright eyes, the garrulous young hare smiled fleetingly. 

"Well, can't do much 'gainst the jolly old orders of th'mountain, might as well exit with style, wot!" 

Quinn chuckled deeply. "That's th'spirit, boyo! You stick with Cass, she'll smother yeh with the bally old TLC th'whole way, y'know." 

"Heehee! I'm quite a sap at heart, y'know," she giggled, surprisingly quietly. 

* * * 

The whole affair boggled the abbey elders so much that it was decided that sleep might provide the answers. The only one who knew his path for certain, though, was Tryffen. Jakob, upon hearing the news, bore it better than anticipated by his father. His sole insistence was that he be allowed to accompany his friend a few miles away from the Abbey. Michael consented. George, Dolores and Tori agreed to go along, for guidance and company on return. 

* * * 

The day before Tryffen left the abbey, the five Leedsdown wolves gathered together over a late evening snack of tomato soup in an isolated wing of Redwall. Tori didn't beat around the bush or mince words. 

"I've decided I'm returning back north. The thought of Shang Widowmaker destroying all this happiness causes my thoughts to be dark and heavy. I will appeal to those I meet along the way for help. I may try to go to Manchester, too. Either way, I will stop those foxes and destroy them, as they destroyed us. Anybeast who is willing to come with me is welcome." 

George nearly choked. His dark eyes began burning, and his head pounded with shades and images and screams of a great battle. He slumped down, and stared into the bowl of tomato soup. Bodies, mangled and bloodied, nearly unrecognizable, littered the ruins of their city. His eyes widened, rolling in his head, horrified, as the scene flashed before him, and he saw, at the end, who stood and mourned for the lost. 

"You can't go!" he yelped, unable to say to who. The other four watched him, stunned. He regained his breath, and, his narrow chest heaving, he repeated tearfully, "You can't go. You just can't." 

"George, did y'see somethin'?" Paul demanded urgently. Crying, the wolf nodded yes. 

* * * 

The morning of the hares' departure dawned gray and rainy. The remnants of the winter chill lingered, reminding the woodlands that it was not altogether gone. The gloominess of the day did nothing to smother the Long Patrol's enthusiasm, however, or appetite, for that matter. Elena, the stout abbey Friaress, had a job of keeping the less-than-shy Cass away from the tarts cooling near the ovens. 

She stood menacingly in front of them, brandishing a broom. "Now you just hold hard there, hare. If I let you at these, the whole of Redwall will be starvin' long afore noontide!" 

"I say, miss, they're bally well already starvin'! Lemme bring 'em out t'Great Cavern or wherever y'serve y'lovely vittles! Owch! Give 'em here, spoilsport, I'm just tryin' t'help you, honest!" 

"Vittles!? _Vittles!? _Ooooooo, you'll pay for that!" The mouse shook with rage, and chased the whooping Cass out of the kitchens. "You'll never eat 'vittles' here again, you gluttonous romping villain!" she shrieked. "I'll see to that!" 

Liam wandered though, pushing a cart topped with steaming scones. He eyed the tasty-looking tarts, and slyly snatched one, a technique he'd often employed back home on his mother. 

* * * 

Tryffen gorged himself no less than usual. "A tribute to y'food, Friaress, love!" he explained as Elena had glared momentarily at his cousin Circassia, seated near him. Jakob, on his left, chuckled into his napkin at his friend. 

"So, Tryff, is your review book of woodland fare finished?" 

Tryffen's ears shot up. "Not likely! I 'aven't seen half the scoff on this table th'whole time I've been 'ere! The lovely Friaress has no doubt been savin' th'best for last for her jolly old pal me, eh?" 

"Oh, is she your pal, Tryff? Whooohaha! Looks like I made yeh another bally enemy, then!!" 

Further on down the table, Abbot Daniel conversed with Tori. 

"Well, my child, our friends the Long Patrol are leaving with Tryffen on this morn. What about you? You have expressed a need to us to return north to fight Shang Widowmaker." 

Tori nodded. "Yes. I've decided to leave before the next full moon. Every minute I remain here at your beautiful abbey, the further south that horde moves. John, Ringo, George, and Paul have all agreed to go with me." 

"Umm, 'scuse me fer interruptin', but what's this I 'ear 'bout you leavin' without uz?" Noel leaned across the table. "T'wouldn't be very fair t'leave me an' Liam out've a good fight. In fact, I'm sure the little bugger'd be plenty o' use t'yeh." He grinned wryly. 

The abbot smiled. "Just like the shrews, eh? Life's not much fun to you without trouble." Noel's broad smile deepened into a chuckle. 

"Aye, tha's right, Father. We'd be fair mizzable all peaceful like our whole lives." 

But when the hour arrived that their friend actually left Redwall, even Elena shed a few tears for the garrulous hare. 

"Here," she grumbled, shoving a basket full of tarts and scones and a jug of Redwall's famous October Ale into the hare's paws. "Don't you starve t'death b'fore you come back t'us, hear?" His eyes widened gratefully, and he unexpectedly made a gallant, sweeping bow and kissed her paw. 

"I say, I jolly well think I'll miss you th'most, old gel," he declared nobly. 

Elena choked back some tears. "Really?" 

"'Course, old thing! I won't be 'round f'any more of y'ironpawed kitchen bossin'!" 

The Friaress understood the joke, and as the gathered crowd laughed, she scowled playfully and muttered just loud enough, "I won't say anything 'cause of the occasion, but when you come back home here we'll be servin' jugged hare, thank you very much!" 

The normally saturnine Harry Buckthorn unexpectedly slapped Tryffen good-naturedly on the back. "Well, then, c'mon, old scout, we've got t'get you home t'y'old mater, wot! An' off we go!" 

Circassia addressed the abbeydwellers even after she was hustled out the door by Quinn and George, shouting compliments and jests to the gates. "Well, then, thank ye once again f'your bally good hospitality! Whoooohahahaaa!!! 'Fraid we'll probably be back rather shortly, however though, eh! Food, y'see, wot!" 

* * * 

Jakob stood at the edge of the meadow marking Mossflower's westernmost boundary, where the land stretched out into a rolling golden plain. The four hares were long in the distance, but the mouse was still murmuring good-byes to keep himself Tryffen's company a little longer. George stood just behind the forest line and said to Tori, "Think we'd better tear 'im away. Won't be any easier on 'im t'stand there an' wait for the hare t'suddenly come back." 

The red wolf nodded. "You're right of course. But let's just say we give him a couple more minutes." 

"Fine." George's dark eyes scanned the horizon. "But th'longer y'leave 'im there, I think the harder it'll be t'get him to go home." 

Tori approached the young mouse slowly from behind. He was still gazing towards the faraway mountains. She gingerly walked up beside him, and comfortingly put an arm around his shoulders. Jakob sighed. Tori felt it, heavily. 

"You know, you'll be seeing him soon enough," she said cheerfully. 

"Really?" Jakob sniffled slightly. 

"Sure! That hare'll stop at nothing to get back to the food here, much less seeing yoo-OOO!!" She hugged his shoulder and began to lead him back towards Redwall. A blur shot out from a clump of tall grass and goldenrod, right at Tori. It threw itself into her and Jakob, knocking her down. The sheer force of the blow threw Jakob against a tree, and he landed with a splash into a small pond of stagnant rainwater. 

It was a huge, mostly white and light gray wolf: it began furiously attacking her, in the traditional but fearsome northern style, using no weapons. 

"Einar!" it growled ferociously to her terrified face. "Einar f'harmpeth!" 

She desperately tried to fight back, but the wolf's unimaginable strength was overpowering. She yelped involuntarily, and George suddenly flew from the bracken, ramming his body into Tori's assailant. More shouts were emerging from the tallgrasses, and as the princess lay heaving and recovering from the bolt of lightening, she realized what had just happened. Einar, that was the Gaelic word for fox. _Einar f'harmpeth _meant 'child-stealing fox.' Her eyes widened. How she had hated those Gaelic lessons..... 

_"MENA!!" _she shouted forcefully. "Gan bayle teerdannel!!" 

The fighting ceased as suddenly as it had began. The strange wolves stood stock-still. The fox had spoken to them in Gaelic! Stop! she had told them: we are wolves! The "fox" advanced slowly. She limped, but managed to point a paw to herself as she moved toward bloody and broken George. "Teerdan, teerdan..." 

The hulking wolf who had attacked them backed away, revealing his mistake: George was struggling to move, and his breath was interceded by coughs of blood and choking. Tori tried to keep her eyes off him as she kept pointing a paw to her chest. "Rubyhaer," she said. "Finne f'Colvin ta Derynai." Daughter of Colvin and Derynai, names known throughout all the Northlands. A gasp rippled through the immediate area. Several more Gaels appeared from the underbrush. The largest of them, accompanied by a powerful-looking female, stepped forward and copied Tori's gesture. 

"Aelfwald," he said slowly. He pointed to his mate. "Adia." 

"Rampek Aelfwald," she said, bowing her head slightly and addressing him respectfully as 'Chieftain,' "we must get these creatures help now." 

"Oubla?" he asked helplessly. "Where?" 

Before Tori could reply, a young, sturdily built mouse darted from behind them. He gaped momentarily at Jakob, lying prostrate in the bilgewater, then looked at Tori. His piercing gray eyes were somehow familiar. "Redwall?" he asked, without any trace of Gaelic accent. She nodded, dumbfounded. He turned commandingly to the Gaels. "Toyda!" he yelled in Gaelic: go! "Pick up these creatures and follow Rubyhaer to the abbey!" 

George's attacker carefully scooped him into massive arms: another wolf, who looked his twin, lifted Jakob out of the water and wrapped a blanket around the shivering mouse. The small pack obeyed the mouse's order, and followed a breathless and frightened Tori through the woodlands. 

* * * 

"Mercy on th'bereft!" John drew his breath inwardly quickly. "George, what did this to yeh?" He raced alongside the Infirmary keepers carrying the two victims on stretchers. The injured wolf tried to speak and lift a paw, but he was much too weak. At the door, Fiona turned to John. 

"I'm sorry, but y'can't go any further from here. You might get in the way. Sorry..." Rather than argue, the shell-shocked John stood silently on the other side of the slammed door, his jaw hanging open in disbelief. Ringo and Paul were soon at his side: Michael and Noel sat down, leaning against the wall. 

Down below in Great Hall, Tori translated the Gaelic wolves' story to Abbot Daniel, Dolores, Skipper, and Brother Neil. 

"Aelfwald and his tribe come from Aiyar, which is a mystical island to the west of Leedsdown. One day, a searat vessel was wrecked on their coast. The few corsairs onboard were slain in a small skirmish, and the oarslaves were rescued and taken care of. The wolves promised to help find their homes for them, as they knew they couldn't stay with them. Soon, all but one had found settlement. He was a mouse, from the old caves just south of our city. He'd been sold into slavery to searats by a white fox, after his family had been massacred at his home." 

The mouse quietly gazed upward and around the abbey as Tori continued Aelfwald's tale as Neil bound her bleeding paw. 

"He had no wishes to return to his caves. Instead, he told Aelfwald's niece Rivenna of visions he was having, of a great red-brick building. He said he knew he must go there. An ancestor of his came to him in dreams and told him of it, a mouse who'd once lived in those very same north-western caves. Rivenna, of course, told her uncle, and Aelfwald swore to help him go. 

"When the Gaels had been traveling on the mainland for a few weeks, they encountered a vast horde of foxes, who overran and destroyed their camp, Hull Cklelihedd. Obviously Shang's group," she added bitterly. "They could see that they were up to no good, so through guerrilla attacks and fright tactics, they diverted them into the mountains and left them to either remain or go in circles through the valleys. They crossed through the mountains and continued south until today, when they saw me with Jakob. Since I'm not especially large for a wolf, and I'm red to boot, they thought me to be a fox kidnapping him, so Tamga here attacked us. All a huge mistake, for which he has apologized profusely and consistently to me." 

"The mouse," the abbot asked, "what's his name?" 

The mouse said nothing, and let Adia explain. As his eye wandered, he saw something that grabbed him, and he walked over to the tapestry of Martin the Warrior, transfixed by the picture. 

Tori turned to the elders. "He tells me the mouse says he had an ancestor whose brother wandered away from home one season. When they heard tidings of him later, he'd come to be known as Matthias of Redwall." Dolores quietly gasped. Unawares, Tori continued. 

"This Matthias of course shares his lineage, which can be traced all the way back to a cavemouse who lived in his same caves, called Luke the Warrior. His younger son was named Martin: his older, Lawlor." 

The realization began to dawn on Tori's audience. She didn't understand the significance, and said, "It's for him he's named. The mouse's name is Llawder. What?" She realized she'd lost their attention, and turned her head to where the abbeydwellers were staring. 

Llawder was entirely unaware of them. His eyes bright, he reached forward with a paw, and touched the tapestry's face. The image of Martin the Warrior was a perfect mirror of his own. 

"Great ancestors above," Daniel whispered, white as a sheet. " 'Hear the warrior with no sword, walking backwards to Redwall,'" he quoted. " 'Seek no more in the Warriors' tombs, another came from founder's caves. Escorted 'cross a land where great stones loom, he too seeks to repay what the White One gave.' So Sister Joan was right. As Tori, a princess, translates, his name is 'Redwall' backwards, and indeed he carries no sword. His ancestors came from the northwestern caves to Redwall, he came across mountains, not monoliths, and now is back here again, in a full circle." 

Tori solemnly approached him, and asked quietly, "Llawder?" He looked away from the tapestry to her. "Was it Shang?" she asked, her voice a near growl. 

Llawder nodded, once. "Yes." 

Tori's bright green eyes flashed once. "Me too," she said. "We are bound together by the same cruelty." She offered a paw in an unspoken pact. Mouse and wolf looked each other in the eye. Llawder took it, and repeated fiercely, once, 

"Yes!"   
  



	6. V

Tryffen plopped down on a sand dune. "I'll tell yeh, sah, I c'n jolly well see Salamandastron, but I'm a weasel's auntie if I can make it any further t'day!" 

Quinn sat down next to him, gazing at the looming mountain before them. 

"Well, if we have t'carry yeh, then I'm sure y'dotin' cousin would be more'n happy t'encourage Harry t'tell 'er jokes t'get y'runnin', wot! Antisle's expectin' some jolly important information from yeh, y'know." 

Tryffen's ears shot up. "Information?! I didn't know I was bally well _spyin' _on Redwall!" 

Quinn shrugged. "I dunno, laddie. As far as I can guess, 'e might just have wanted t'know 'ow 'is sister's doin'." 

The younger hare massaged his feet, and groaning, finally rose to them. "Unlikely, old chap, 'e can just pop one of us over t'Redwall any day without sendin' bloomin' crypticated messages and such. Well, guess we can't disappoint ol' Fire Ant. Homeward bound, lads an' lass!" 

Quinn cuffed him lightly. "Fire Ant? Where'd you come up with that one? Have a liddle respect, bucko!" 

Behind them, Cass whispered to Harry, "Actually, I think it's jolly clever!" 

* * * 

Quinn accompanied Tryffen to Antisle's room, as the nervous young hare had little reporting experience, especially to such an intimidating figure. 

"Lord Antisle, sah, Quinn Meadowclary an' Tryffen Alneday reportin' back from Long Patrol an' Redwall, respectively, sah!" Quinn belted out at the door. 

The badger's formidable voice boomed back. "Enter!" 

"Remember, now, unless m'lord Antisle tells yeh t'ease up, keep a stiff upper lip, eyes t'front, all that. Nothin' to it after a bit," the kindly hare whispered to the leveret. They marched in together, and both threw smart salutes. Tryffen was having difficulty taking his eyes off the strange white hare sitting in the corner. 

Antisle immediately barked, "At ease, gentlemen." Quinn and Tryffen sighed relief, and the badger offered them seats. He leaned forward eagerly to the junior hare. "So, tell me, young Tryffen. How are things at Redwall faring?" 

Taken aback by this casual question, he began stuttering. "Uh-o-ohh, um, fine, just fine, I guess...." He gathered confidence and some order when Quinn glared at him. "Well, actually, towards about th'middle of spring all these strange creatures began showin' up, y'know. This bloomin' wolfgel was washed up on Wuddshipp Creek just near the abbey, great huge red singin' thing she is. Name's Tori. Guess then a couple of 'er mates showed up, afterwards. Six more wolves, can you believe it! Never seen so many o'the blinkin' blighters in all me born days!" He hardly noticed the sigh of relief given by Caxton. Antisle smiled, and pressed, 

"What're these wolves' names, pray tell?" 

Lured by the Badger Lord's friendliness, Tryffen jumped into a detailed account of the events after John, Liam, Noel, Ringo, George, and Paul arrived, through the revealing of the first of the scrolls, and their announcement to leave by the next full moon. "They've probably left by now, or soon, surely," he added carelessly. 

Antisle had his eyes closed contentedly, smiling, and Caxton, the Arctic hare, was mumbling "thank the seasons!" over and over again. The badger looked at Tryffen and asked, "Tell me one more thing, Tryffen. How's my sister, Dolores?" 

"Oh, spiffin', Lord! She told me t'give you this when we left." He drew a scroll, much like the ones he'd carried to Redwall, from his tunic pocket, and handed it over to him. Antisle opened it, scanned it briefly, and nodded. 

"Thanks, Tryffen. You're free to go your mother now." He smiled wryly, and chuckled as the irrepressible leveret saluted, and raced out of the room, yelling "Mmmmmmummyyyyyy!!!! Y'darlin's here!" Quinn sighed in fake exasperation, and with a casual salute he followed his charge's scampering footsteps. 

Caxton leaned on a paw. "So, Antisle, what does your sister say?" 

The big badger leaned back in his chair and read aloud Dolores's message. 

"The wolves have left as you read this   
Departed for battle far to the north.   
They'd return before winter, they promised,   
But not all will survive the course. 

We bade our goodbyes, keeping one here.   
He defended Tori from Gaels' mistake.   
We'll wait for three, past warriors' come, without fear,   
And comrades' story will live throughout and after all age." 

* * * 

George stood apart from the rest, his intense black eyes in deep pain. He was still in no condition to even walk too much. Regardless, just before the four were to depart, he hobbled up to John. Behind them, the Gaels waited just outside the gate, along with Michael and Sheryl. He thought of Jakob, still lying in Sister Joan's care, deep in the grip of pneumonia. He wondered how Michael had found it in himself to leave. But then, how again could the rest of his mates go also? It would always be hard. No bantering or jesting here: there was not a dry eye in the orchard as they watched their friends go. 

He stood there, gazing at them sadly. He thought of begging his friends to go instead with Sheryl, one last time, but there was no convincing them. They knew not of what would happen. Maybe better that way... 

John's eyes were bright with tears. "We'll give th'bastards hell for yeh, George." George reached out with a bandaged paw and hugged John fiercely. John tried a smile. "We'll be fine: we'll come back before the winter arrives." George said nothing for a long time. He drew back painfully, and looked into John's eyes. Shaking his head, he tried to speak without his voice trembling too much. 

"John, I will miss you." 

(I will be seeing you much sooner than you or I wish.) 

He sighed: a tremor shuddered through his body. "Goodbye." He smiled slightly, and quoted one of their songs: "Remember, the movement you need is on your shoulder." The Gallagher brothers stood respectfully to the side. John hugged him again and replied softly, 

"I'll see ya soon, George." George bowed his head solemnly, and limped over to Tori. He stood in front of her, and made a courtly salute. 

"Threads that are golden don't break easily, Majesty," he whispered, and embraced her. "I'll be thinking of you when you restore your throne." 

(Tuna, rubber, little blubber in my igloo. And I knew you, pigtails and all, girls when they fall... And they said Marianne killed herself, and I said, Not a chance.) 

She smiled, and thanked him, her voice heavy with the wish that he could come with her. 

(don't want me to come with you nope you'll never see me again though I will you) 

The courtyard soon became empty, save for the few nurses lingering behind him to help him back inside again. George sat alone, watching them disappear. He cried as he said to the winds, "I won't see you ever again. I wish I could, but fate's pushed us apart from here. So think of me, but y'won't see me again, mates. At least not in this life." 

* * * 

The sights of late spring did nothing to lift the heavy, depressed atmosphere from the expedition, numbering about twenty sad creatures. Above the silence, Paul could hear sniffles and moans. There were plenty of 'if only George could be here's. 

Frustrated, he finally broke the silence from the middle of the column. "Aw, c'mon, y'sour milk spoilsports! Just b'cause we're on a grave mission doesn't mean we 'ave t'show it the whole way t'Leedsdown! Let's sing somethin'!" He looked at the blank faces. "C'mon, mates, y'with me? Aye? All right, how about, umm...'From Me To You'? 'She Loves You'?" He grew comically desperate. " 'A Hard Day's Night'?!" He was greeted with nothing, at which he grinned. "Ah! Should've known. 'Course y've never heard of 'em, John wrote 'em all!" Paul cleared his throat and began singing gustily. 

"I was alone, I took a ride,   
I didn't know what I would find theeeeeeerre!   
Another road, well maybe I   
Could find another kind of mind theeeeeeerre! 

Ooooo! And I suddenly see you,   
Ooooo! Did I tell you I need you   
Every single day of my life?" 

Ringo smiled toothily, and tapped a footpaw as Paul hummed and then suddenly burst out, "Got to get you into my life! Somehow, some way!" 

The song had struck at such a down-cast moment that even stolid Aelfwald was joining in the giggles. The singer drew himself up grandly and announced "modestly", 

"Need a bit 'o work, some good guitars an' drums. But all and all it's no so bad for an improv." He turned to rest of the laughing company. "Well, what about any o' you? Care to have a go after my spectacular performance?" 

The deluge of laughter were a welcome accompaniment to the sounds of Mossflower Woods. Some of the Gaels were cracking smiles and nudging a large purple-black female. Paul noticed it, and issued a challenge. 

"How 'bout you? You look a likely contender." 

"Aye, city boy, so I might be!" the wolf threw back, a playful sparkle dancing in her blue eyes. 

"Well then," said Paul expectantly, "let's hear yeh!" 

Her voice rang out like perfectly tuned wind chimes. The Gael's singing, it seemed, could lure any bird from the trees. 

"It doesn't mean much.   
It doesn't mean anything at all.   
The life I've left behind me, is a cold one.   
Cross at this time, where I cannot bear to fall,   
Where every step I took in faith betrayed me. 

"And Iiiiiiiii'm reeeaady for my hoooome.   
Sweeeeeeeeeeeet surrender   
Is all that I have to give." 

The wolf was greeted with hearty clapping and unashamed whistles. She smiled, relishing the attention. 

"My word," Michael commented, "I've heard many a blackbird that doesn't sing a fraction as well as you do, miss!" 

"Well, isn't it ironic that you should say that then, eh?" she replied, her rich Aiyar accent as pleasant to listen to as her voice. "That's my name, Rivenna Dyfedfinne. Means 'blackbirdberry.' Th'first name, that it." 

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," John teased, warbling one of Paul's most recent compositions. "Take my common sense an', throw it away! All my life, I've been droolin' to fiiiiiind someone as fair as yoou!" 

"That's true, John, you should be talking!" Ringo wryly called from the front. "What about you, Tori? Got anythin' happy for us?" 

"Well, sure, Ringo, maybe somewhere..." Tori smiled. "I've got a sort of a nonsense song I really like. Here, lemme see if I can remember it all." The group waited to hear their leader. The wolf grinned crookedly and began airily. "Coooon-gradulate you. Said you, had, a double tongue. Balancing, cake and bread, say good-bye to, a glitter giiiiiirrrlllll...... 

"Talula, Talula, you don't want to lose him,   
she must be worth losing if it is worth something.   
Talula, Talula, she's brand new now to ya.   
Wrapped in your papoose, your little Fig Newton. 

"Say good-by-hi-hi-hi-hi to normal, baby, gotta go.   
Say good-by-hi-hi-hi-hi, my baby, to the old wooorrrrrrllllldddd, yes. 

"Ran into the henchman that severed Anne Bolelyn.   
He did it right quickly, a merciful man.   
She said 'one plus one is two' but Henry said   
that it was three, so it was, here I am... 

"Talula, Talula, you don't want to lose it,   
it must be worth losing if it is worth something.   
Talula, Talula, she's brand new now to ya.   
Wrapped in your papoose, your little Fig Newton. 

"And Jamaaaaaaaaaiiica,   
Do you know, do you know what I have done?   
Marrryyyyyyyy M, weaving on,   
said 'what you want, is in her blood, Senators.'   
Said 'what you want, is in her blood, Senatooooooorrss, yes... 

I got Big Bird on the fishing line, a   
bit of a shout, a bit of a shout,   
A bit of an, angry snout, he's my favorite hooker of the whole bunch.   
But I know about his only bride and how the   
Russians die on the ice, I got my rape hat on, honey but I   
always could accessorize, and I never cared too much   
for the money but I know right now   
Honey that it's in God's hands, oooohhh   
but I don't know who the Father is. 

"Talula, Talula, I don't want to lose it,   
it must be worth losing if it is worth something.   
Talula, Talula, he's brand new now to ya.   
Wrapped in your papoose, your little Fig Newton.   
Your little Fig Newton. 

"Your little Fig Neeeewwwwtoooooonnn......" She trailed off, took a deep breath, and exhaled sharply, with a soft and smug "hey." "Phwew!" she gasped amid the clapping, "I've forgotten how much hot air it takes t'sing songs other than something melancholy!" 

"Y'do too much of that, then, I'd guess. We've got to'condition you t'joy, luv," John remarked. "How 'bout a lovey-dovey song? Too bad we've already heard from Paul," he retaliated, "he specializes in those!" 

"Somethin' really sappy, y'say? I've written just the piece!" 

Sheryl stared in mock amazement. "Noel? _You? _I don't believe you!" 

"Hey Noel, though, which one?" Liam jibed. "Y've got 'Wonderwall,' 'Don't Go Away,' on th'contradictory note 'Slide Away'..." 

"Aw, definitely 'Wonderwall.' I love that 'un. Hold on a sec, lemme dig out th'guitar..." 

"No-no-no-no! C'mon, let's wait for a campfire b'fore we get t'the sappy stuff. Hey you wolves, you sing anythin'?" 

"Ach, do we ever!" Aelfwald replied cheerfully. "Owen, or Samhain per'aps? Give these innocents a bit of Aiyar t'remember!" 

The Gael called Owen obliged. "Sure thing, Chief, What'll be, d'you suppose? 'The Best of What's Around'?" 

The huge chieftain considered, then said, "No, let's have somethin' more traditional-like, lad." 

The young wolf shook his head ruefully. "Someone else'll have t'do et, then. I'm no good at the old songs. Don't 'ave no voice when it comes to that." 

Cries immediately went up. " 'Dreams'! 'Dreams'! Samhain! Aye, let the squirrel sing!" The russet-colored wolf blushed, and bashfully agreed to the challenging vocal. And so the rabble of wolves, mice, and four stalkers who had yet to reveal themselves, progressed north through the sunlit glades of Mossflower, journeying ever closer to destiny. 

The evening was high and warm, the pleasant drone of insects a relaxing lull. As the evening meal was dwindling to the slowest eaters licking their bowls, John noticed something. 

"What's that?" he asked a Gael called Bocton, who was seated next to him on the thick pine log. The wolf was pulling out what looked like a collapsed sculpture of pipes and tubes, connected to a tightly woven bag. Bocton stopped blowing into one of the tubes, which was inflating the sack, and looked curiously at him. 

"Haven't y'ever seen one o' these? 'Tis a set of uillean pipes. Dead lovely music so it makes." 

The Leedsdowner shook his head. "Never. What's it sound like?" 

Bocton nodded toward some friends of his. "Dyfed, Gowran, Kirkroan," he called across the roaring campfire, "yon wolf here's never 'eard our dancin' music." 

The three wolves feigned overwhelming shock. 

"Never in 'is life?! He ain't bin livin' atall!" 

"We'll 'ave t'fix that, friends! C'mon, out with y'noise makers!" 

"Aye, let's have some o'the fair ladies and gents up! Not you, Tamga, ye'd fall an' crush some poor body!" The trio removed a fiddle, a large drum, and a worn pair of spoons from their supplies, calling out names of comrades and egging them on to dance. 

"Rampek Aelfwald and Gnodfe Adia! Show 'em what Aiyar's made of! Elfgiva, Grensade, Eirann, Craig! Up an' at 'em, lads!" 

Michael, Liam, Sheryl, Paul, John, Noel, and Ringo sat amazed at they watched the makeshift band talk speedily among themselves in their Gaelic tongue. One of the dancers grabbed Tori's paws unexpectedly and heaved from the log. 

"C'mon, miss, 'ave some joy in yeh tonight!" he grinned, eyes sparkling. 

"How?" she asked, surprised. "We'll let everyone for miles know we're here!" 

The Gael shrugged. "No matter. 'Tis easy enough t'fight off a foe. Concentrate on movin' y'footpaws in somethin' else than marchin' and fleein'!" 

"B-but, I don't know how!" she protested. "What should I--?" 

"Y'don't know how t'have fun?" the wolf questioned as the musicians began a thumping, intoxicating harmony. "Dear me, this is quite serious. C'mon, follow me: Ellis Underwood knows all 'bout that!" He whirled her around as the pounding war drum and steady clacking of the spoon filled her head: the wild and haunting sounds of the uillean pipes and the frantic violin combined for an un-held back, soaring sense of joy. Forgetting the need to know steps, she suddenly laughed and began making up her own taps and jigs. Ellis smiled approvingly, challenging her to a contest of fleetness of foot. Calls for old favorite songs were shouted out, and Bocton, Kirkroan, Dyfed, and Gowran switched to a blurringly fast reel. 

Tori could never remember having so much fun in all the nights she'd snuck away from Tyne Palace and joined the dance halls and clubs in the city. Time became meaningless as the impromptu celebration quickened her heartbeat and shed her ever-present thoughts of grief. 

When the music ceased, the small crowd set up cheers and, panting heavily, began to sit down once again. Bocton turned to John. 

"So, lad, what d'ye think?" 

John nodded neutrally, trying to conceal his heaving chest and deep respect for the players. "Fine. I suppose it's alright for amateurs." 

A competitive light shone in Bocton's eyes. "Have somethin' ye'd like t'share with us, then?" 

The city wolf answered the challenge. "Aye, sure do! C'mon, guys. Noel, can you do a lead for us? How 'bout 'Long Tall Sally,' y'oughta know it." 

Ringo slid his drumsticks from a pack and asked Kirkroan if he could borrow the war drum. John glanced at Paul. "Y'up to th'vocal?" 

"Guess I'll have t'be, you're no good at it," he replied laconically, unshouldering his bass. 

" 'Long Tall Sally'?! No no no! A request! A request, old boy!" a strange voice called from behind the treeline. "I'm quite partial to 'Twist And Shout', men!" 

"Shhhh! Nora, you untactical flea-bitten loudmouth! Don't blow it!" a worried voice hushed from the same direction. 

Another chuckled. "Well, we might as well make ourselves known, we've been watchin' 'em long enough." 

"Off with yeh, Ronin! We're only jolly stalkin' 'em f'Wy--ooof! Sorry old buddy, won't give th'bally game away. We're stalkin' 'em, can't give ourselves away, can we?" 

Paul, with a confused look on his face, called out unsurely, "Hello?" 

"Hi lads! Nice t'be makin' bally verbal contact you an' all, wot!" the first voice answered. Tori stood up. 

"Who's there?" 

A hare emerged from behind a thick pine tree. She was clad in a knee-length pink skirt and a dirty yellow sleeveless top. They were slightly tattered, but notwithstanding of her clothes, she curtsied grandly and announced, "Natalie Ophelia Ronette Angeline Snapdragon, alias Nora to her friends and acquaintances. Nice t'be talkin' t'somebody else rather than those three for once in much too long!" 

A sigh of resignation arrived from behind her. "Well, blabberbottom here's already given us away, we might as well jolly well join 'em." Another hare, more modestly dressed, stepped forward. Behind him was a small, fat squirrel and, just barely discernible through the flickering shadows, an otter. "Chester Halifax," the hare said simply, touching the brim of his large, floppy hat. He pointed to the squirrel over his shoulder and monotoned, "That's Ronin Birchglen, who found you chaps." 

"Wasn't too hard, with all the racket you've been puttin' up," he grinned. "My compliments to th'performers." The four Gaels, a bit embarrassed, shuffled about and nodded slightly. Nora stepped backwards for a better look at the bunch. 

Right onto the otter's foot. 

"Whooaaaaaaahhh!! Y'hooternosed tree beetle! I need that footpaw!" he cursed at the hare in between jumping up and down, clutching the limb. He hopped forward into the firelight. Michael leapt up. 

"Wynnstream? What are you doing here?" 

The Skipper's brawny son sat down on one of the logs, still rubbing and nursing his paw. He smiled through his pained expression. "Michael! Nice t'see yeh. Dad says hello. Well," he continued on the subject, "I've been at Camp Willow fer the past couple o' days. Discussed it over with a few maties o' mine, an' we all decided it would be for th'best if I went you with guys. There ain't gonna be any other way for me to prove meself worthy t'be the Skip one day, I suppose." 

"Wynn, what does your father have to say about this?" Sheryl questioned sternly, forgetting that the otter was only a little younger than she was. 

Wynn chuckled. "My ole dad? Was his idea, b'lieve it or not. Says he's getting long in th'seasons, even though he ain't, and of course he wants me t'carry on after 'im. But 'cordin' t'tribal law I gotta make somethin' of m'self sometime sooner or later. Now I know this whole crusadin' business won't be a complete lark, 'specially toward the end and all, but I'm ready and willin' t'help. I'm a top shot at slings and otter javelins're easy as pie." 

Michael was nodding slowly as he thought it over. The crack of the firewood was the only sound for a few moments. Nora pouted, thinking her voice was only loud enough for the otter to hear. "Sure, thwackytail, leave y'buds who made your whole wotsy possible out of it! Such ingratuity, I won't bally stand for it!" 

"Stow it a sec, rabbit," Ronin interceded. "Spotlightin' and upstaging might be for you, but not all the time!" 

Wynnstream waved the squirrel off. "Nah, nah, it's okay. Never ye mind her." He turned to his audience of wolves. "Well, hearties, I'll let the masterful mister Halifax tell you how I came upon the misfortune to land upon these three bandits!" 

The unobtrusive hare shrugged. "We were passin' through, eventually hopin' t'get somewhere nearabouts Salamandastron someday. Stopped at Camp Willow, and the Skipper asked us to find you lot. 'Fraid old Wynnie here was jolly well jammed with us. 'Tis a sad fate when the only ones t'talk to for three days is either a treejumper who's fallen on his head one too many times or a bloomin' aspirin' actress. I'm just along for th'scenery." 

Nora was indignant, among many of the other words she sputtered and mispronounced. "The nerve of him! I'm insulated! I-I mean insultanated! Outrangered! Piffin' angryish!" 

"Here's hopin' ye've eaten, then, hare!" Rivenna called out. "I've heard many a legend 'bout your kind a-hoppin' mad and empty-tummed t'boot!" Snickers quickly exploded into laughter as the foursome was invited to some of their victuals. They, of course, graciously accepted. 

* * * 

Brother Andrew had been assigned gatekeeper duty as a replacement for the derelict Wynnstream. The fieldmouse had leaned back in the voluminous armchair and felt his eyelids droop further than he meant them to. The soothing sounds of lulling crickets and the occasional bird call tucked a blanket of sleep around the brother, and the main gate was absented of mind for quite a few hours. 

A sturdy knock jolted dozy Andrew from a very pleasant dream. Grumbling and yelling "Hold on! Hold on! I'm coming!" above his stumbling around the small, cluttered room, he trod on the edge his olive green habit and stumbled out the door. Opening the small gate for individual travelers, he muttered to himself, "What decent, sane creature is larkin' about the woodlands at this crazy hour? Why they picked me for this job I'll never know..." 

A sturdy-looking hedgehog stepped back from the door, his paw still clenched in a fist from knocking. A small, weathered otter, leaning on a staff, looked at him, a playful scowl on her middle-aged face. 

"Mouse heard yeh th'first time, thunderpaws. But what y'really need t'get their attention is a good hard whack, like this." 

She swung the staff at the unopened wooden door. A resounding _thud _filled Andrew's pounding head. Biting his lips to avoid both howling and smacking the otter himself, he bowed slightly and curtly asked, "Greetings, strangers. Welcome to Redwall Abbey. What's your purpose of visit?" 

The otter dug her staff into the well-worn earth. "Me? I'm here t'visit me friend Tori Rubyhaer. Heard she was stayin' on here. Sorry about the time, but we figgered we'd partake of yer gen'rous hospitality rather than campin' out in the woodlands at yer gate 'till tomorrer." 

The hedgehog chuckled. "There's another friend she ain't tellin' you about. C'mon, Waterback, out with the real reason." 

Waterback looked the epitome of innocence. "Me? I have told th'good brother here my real reason. Tori and I are old mateys." 

"Well, you're about three days too late," Andrew told her. "She left for what remains of Leedsdown with about twenty others." 

The otter's expression fell. "What-what remains, of Leedsdown? Are you sure? What 'appened?" she whispered. 

"I regret to say I could not fully explain what went on," the mouse answered truthfully. "If you wish, I can wake somebody. Badgermum Dolores perhaps, or the Father Abbot--" 

Waterback briefly wiped tears with the back of her paw, and regained her composure. "Nah, let's surprise 'em in th'mornin'. I can wait. Like ye said," she winked, "no decent, sane creature would be a-traipsin' about at this hour. Fivespike, go find Leith, will you? He's keepin' th'supplies." The burly hedgehog winked, and walked out the gate into the forest. 

The otter shuffled her feet slightly, then looked at the Redwall curmudgeon again. "Er, is there any chance that Skip's here? 'Cause I've got a son, 'bout his son's age, they might get on well..." she added quickly. 

"Nope, he went away couple days ago to Camp Willow, then disappeared. If it weren't for him, I'd be asleep right now," Andrew groaned. 

Waterback laughed. "So, he's givin' ye his gatekeepin' job t'go out questin', eh? How kind and generous of 'im!" She smirked slightly. "Certainly don't blame th'young pup. Drop everythin' and run somewhere new when y'can, as I say!" She slapped the mouse on the back heartily, and strode off into the grounds. Brother Andrew, rubbing his eyes, briefly held the gate for an overridden otter to rush in, frantically balancing gear, followed by Fivespike the hedgehog. He then shook his numb head, and retired back into the gatehouse. He had valuable sleep to reclaim.   



	7. VI

At breakfast the next morning, the Skipper of Otters rubbed his eyes thoroughly and stared at the glowing otter seated on the opposite side of the table. 

"I must be dreamin'! Goody gracious! Waterback Streamfleet, is that really you?" 

Waterback seemed to have metamorphasized overnight. She no longer appeared as though she had endured seasons upon seasons of trekking through strange lands and hostile kingdoms. The weather-beaten face had been washed away by an extra-studious bath early in the morning, a luxury she'd not enjoyed for a long while. Upon this examination, she seemed to have shed age: Waterback now showed how old she really was; about five or six seasons younger than Skipper himself, who was no ancient himself. She had unpacked some of the fine clothes she'd been given at Castle Floret at long-ago Southsward, and unbeknownst to the rest of the abbey, Fiona and Merril had spent an hour or two deciding on which of her as-yet unworn dresses to present herself to Skipper in the next morning. 

Presently she sat clad in a modest garment, colored a soft yellow famed throughout the Southlands. She smiled winningly and replied to the star-struck otter, "It may be no dream, but a nightmare, yet here I am, Skip, just like I said I would. A sight t'make sore eyes sorer, eh?" 

Skipper drew himself up, a youthful smirk on his face. "If'n this is wot sore eyes feels like, by all means make 'em sorer! Where've you been all these seasons? Last time I saw ye you were saddlin' yer liddle tyke in yore arms just as I was mine!" 

She laughed, and put a paw around her son's shoulder on her right. "How time passes! This here's my little Leith, all growed up and takin' care 'o me in my infirm condition!" 

The shy young otter blushed, and quietly said, " 'Tis a true chore lookin' after this'n, so it is. A real wildcat she is, no mistakin' that." 

Waterback punched him affectionately. "I'm a kitten compared to your grandpa. Creekben Sheercliffe, now there's a fighter! Dunno if 'e lives or not, but the ol' pickle's still probably throwin' those soldjers around hard as ever." 

Skipper leaned back in his chair, crossing his brawny arms in front of his chest. "Leith, eh? Aptly named, I'm sure." 

"Oh really?" Merril asked casually. She'd been eying the handsome newcomer ever since she'd spotted him sleeping this morning as his mother had asked her to help chose outfits. 

"Aye, he is," Waterback agreed. "Leith Elginspere. Named 'im for th'greatest warrior and th'greatest waterfall in the Far Northlands." 

"Who's this warrior he's named after?" 

"Leith the Suresighted was an ancient fighter who is the patron figure for all archers and slingers," Skipper explained. "He lead a small force of rebels against an army of oppressive wolverines, which are quite possibly one of the most fearsome nightmares to inhabit the isolated tundras and such. They were at the high tide of a decisive battle, which would determine the fate of the land for years after it. Leith's army was almost to the point of defeat when Leith stood up from the spot where he'd been cut down and wounded, and slew the wolverines' chief with a single arrow. He survived long after that and helped set up the city of Manchester, where this was pretty fought at." He looked wryly at Waterback. "Or so me friend Waterback tells me, as she's occasionally given t'be a fearful liar." 

Further on down the table, Calvin Chestnut the cellarhog and Fivespike Pintips, Waterback's Southsward companion, had discovered that they were related. 

"Y'know, you look an awful lot like drawin's of my great-great-great-great-great aunt's uncle Tragglo Spearback's step-grandad," Calvin remarked casually. 

"Would that happen to be Jubilation Spike, rescued from slav'ry from the old kingdom of Malkariss?" Fivespike asked, munching on a raspberry tart. 

"I think it would be! Lessee, um, just fer a checker, have ye got a distant relative somewhere in y'past called Bowly Pintips?" 

"Certainly, hence me name! He was our fam'ly founder. Settled us Pintips near the south-eastern coast long way back, an' we've all been there ever since, 'till ole Waterback came along and had 'er great big hulkin' son carry me off." 

Calvin raised his beaker of milk. "Here's to abductions and fam'ly trees!" 

Fivespike toasted to that. "Aye, I'll drink t'that! Er, d'ye have any o' that famous October ale I been hearin 'bout?" 

* * * 

On the whole, Hoarfrost was usually the silent type, but at the sight of the flatlands stretching out before him from the top of the last of the foothills, with nothing greeting him as a landmark but the glimmer of the Dartmouth River in the setting sunlight, a smile touched his ugly features. 

" 'Tis a fair nice sight t'see clear ahead of ye, 'stead o' those blasted mountains, eh Gila?" 

His companion, a dusty-colored coyote, nodded neutrally. "Yah gawt that raht, frind Horfrawst, buht gimme thuh sunny dry playns o'er this any day. Too wet, these." 

The fox grinned dumbly. "Ain't you th'picky one today?" He turned the conversation back toward himself. "I'm as glad as any to get away from that mess, though. I always knew Shang'd do it: she always does." 

Actually, quite to the contrary, Hoarfrost had thought of attending Shaftclaw's nightly gripe session that evening, but after the fearsome example Shang had made, he'd wisely, as had many others, kept his jaws tightly shut. 

Up from the front of the column, strains of howling from the Coldhearted's two daughters reached their ears. Behind Gila, an old, grizzled stoat called Greenwedge muttered grumpily, "Dang noise they're always makin'! Why d'they always have t'carry on like blasted wolves? Shang hates 'em so much, why try an' be like 'em?" 

Ahead of him, the tall coyote chuckled to himself. For that was a story the whole army knew by heart. 

* * * 

Shang Widowmaker had been born to Kraken Icenclaw and Harpie Silvertongue, the tribal leaders of a tiny nomadic band of foxes who remained white all year round. The only of five pups that survived their first year, early on she exhibited a ferocity and ruthlessness that her parents laughed gleefully at. 

One morning during their wandering, Harpie's sharp, greedy eye caught sight of a small hamlet just inside the northern border of the Forest of Dale. It was the furthest south they had ever traveled, and the sunny, wooded summer condition in which they stumbled onto it in made it seem an ideal eden for the tundra-dwellers. Harpie slyly talked her mate into giving her half of their twenty or so beasts, and, posing as poor, honest traders, they conned their way into shelter for the night. 

The village of Torran, as it happened to be, was only inhabited by the remnants of a once-proud tribe of warriors. There were few able-bodied creatures living there, and besides that smattering of wolves and otters were mostly the aged and very young ones. As fate would have it, two members of Tundralake royalty were also spending a few days with them. Colvin Eagleye, as he had a few seasons till he assumed the title of Wolflord of Tundralake, and Derynai Fioraja, a princess of the tiny but prosperous merchant's town of Havenharbor, were resting in the settlement as part of their Journeying. Journeying was originally only a way for thronal heirs to see what the world beyond their palace walls was like, and what their people would benefit from, had, in recent seasons, expanded to ordinary citizens sending out their children for however long they chose to wander and see something besides the streets of home. Occasionally they would have a specific destination in mind, but more often than not it was haphazard. 

Harpie and her few minions, at night, ransacked what they could of the village and tried to kill Raminica, the Elder. They escaped into the forest, on their way back to Kraken and the rest of the nomads, laden with what little they'd stolen. Unawares, as they ran they were followed by swift Derynai, trailed closely by Colvin. Armed with arrows both, Derynai slew most of the raiders as she chased them, including Harpie, and Colvin made his way to their camp, rendering most of the rest of the foxes dead. Shang, Kraken, and two others barely escaped with their lives. 

The four renegades naturally fled the area. Shang shed no tears for her dead mother, but a malicious hatred of the wolves and all they stood for began to burn, and she finally understood why her parents had taught her all wolves were evil. 

Seasons later, when her tribe's retaliators had been married and enthroned, the Widowmaker had been beyond furious when they announced the name of the heir to the ruler's seat at Tyne Palace: Tori, in honor of the village where they met. Shang had immediately begun teaching her toddler daughter Tatyanna and the newly-speaking Anastasia the time-honored calls, howls, and songs that wolves used to communicate over long distances, in hopes of one day being able to use them to able to break into and destroy Leedsdown, which was the very symbol of all her built-up rancor. 

* * * 

The fall of evening forced the horde to stop, against all of Shang's boundless desire to press on. Tatyanna talked some form of reason into her, and now the large white fox reclined lazily in her tent, studying the polar bear skin with boredom, as her grateful troops slept. She played with the edge of the hide with a footpaw, a paw leaned on the arm of the chair, supporting her head. An unusual energy seemed to emanate from her, a restlessness that was uncharacteristic. 

She knew now that they were following the great river of the far northlands, the Dartmouth. Having never been this far south, she had no knowledge of which way it flowed. In the mountains, she had encountered its source, but being totally disoriented by the massive stones surrounding her, she had not bothered to figure out its course of direction. But tomorrow, tomorrow....would they follow the river if it went north? It seemed the only way she knew to go. The horde had encountered no inhabitants as yet...why did this seem so unreal?! She leaned back in the chair and let go of a massive sigh. Sometimes she wished sleep lasted much longer than it did. 

* * * 

Gila smiled as the soft breeze blew from the west onto his face. He poked his well-sized fire with a spear handle, thanking his cunning and knowledge that he'd been wiser than those numskull foxes by avoiding the pine trees for kindles. 

"Yah gonna tend that big ole fayah all bah yo'self, compadre?" 

Gila looked up over his sandy shoulder: a small band of other coyotes from the army stood behind him. He stood up, and bowed in a gentlemanly manner. 

"Southun hospitahlity would compel me t'do uthahwaze. Do have a seat, confed'rets." 

"Minny thanks indeed, friend," their leader replied, and gestured for his fifteen companions to take their seats before him. Knowingly, however, they left the seat next to Gila open, for Corbann had some bargaining to do. 

Corbann Coalgen was dark and swarthy for a coyote: he had a dashing air that some would call the ease of a plantation owner. His laughter-creased eyes always seemed happy and welcoming. But he had the heart of a pirate and a clever tongue, and all knew of his ruthless fighting and unparalleled swordsmanship. 

The following conversation was surprisingly civil to the passing ear, but the thick honeyed accents of the coyotes obscured the fact that the matter of discussion was life or death in this horde lead by a not-so paranoid commander. 

"Ah heyuh from sum annonimuhs sawces that you, Gila, are thankin' of a-comin' wid me and mah uthah idealists." 

Gila blanched visibly at the information. Corbann chuckled, propping an arm on his knee. "Guess ye ain't got much of a choice naow that it's owt, eh? Wayll, heyuh's th'plan. Now I ain't tole ennyone else this: first tahm this is owt in th'open." He leaned forward and whispered confidentially. "Uz coyotes is gonna assemble t'morrer all tagethuh-like. Ayt a signul frum me, an' onleh me, we'll brayk off frum thuh hawd, an' Ah'll till ennyone who stawps uz that we got awduhs t'go a-scoutin'. 'Tis practically fool-proof, an' as for thuh practically pawt, we c'n fight well enuff. Cool with y'all?" 

The other coyotes grinned evilly. 

"Yah have me, Corb'n." 

"With yeh all th'way, frind." 

"Raht! We don't need no foxes'n'ferrets leadin' us in circles!" 

Corbann spread his paw wide and asked innocently, "Gila, how 'bout you, partner? Y'in?" 

Gila had gone quite pale, and was shaking uncontrollably. He looked at the fifteen faces around him, turned malicious and skull-like by the shadows of the firelight. Corbann, too, was smiling in an altogether too friendly manner. In the darkness, Gila could see he was stroking a knife blade. A fearful gurgle arose in his throat. 

"Yah gawt it all wrawng! I nevah said nothin', Ah swear Ah did!!" 

"No, honeybunch, this is where yawr rawng!" Corbann hissed, and dug the knife into his neighbor. "Ah'll hayve no spahs an' traitors in mah owtfit! Fancy spyin' fer Shang Wid'makah, phah! Yew culda dun bettuh than that!" He withdrew the blade from Gila's stomach, and spat on the spot contemptuously. "Sumthin' f'you t'ponder on, frind Gila. Sweet dreams." He stood up, and motioned to the others casually as the hunched coyote looked after him blearily, quivering and in too much pain to speak. "C'mon, fellas," he said smoothly, "let's go leave this pore beast t'sleep. He's fearful tired, wouldn't y'say? B'sides, we got sum bidness t'attend to." He winked, and patted Gila heavily on the back before exiting to laughter. "Packin' an' suchlike." 

* * * 

Tori squinted as she lay flat against the bluffs, peering out toward the snake of Shang Widowmaker's horde. She shielded her eyes against the glaring sunlight from behind them to better see the hated emblems waving on the tattered flags the wind ripped at below them. She wriggled backwards, and, not even looking at Adia beside her, she asked in Gaelic, "Are those the ones?" 

"Aye, th'very same," she answered. "Without a doubt. I'd recognize those gaudy imitators anywhere." 

Tori sighed grimly, never taking her eyes off the army. "They may be gaudy, but they will pillage and destroy as cruelly as any vermin." 

Adia looked apologetically at her. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me, Tori." 

"Never you mind that, Gnodfe. Forgiven and forgotten," she replied levelly. Rolling awkwardly over the rocks, she faced another Gael who'd joined them. "Think you can hit one near Shang?" 

The white wolf nodded confidently, licking her lips and shouldering her massive bow and arrow. "Aye, miss, sure as there's a nose on yer pretty face." Tori smiled, and checked the letter tied and waxed to the shaft one last time. 

"You're sure this'll stay on? I mean, it won't fly off and get lost in the midlands?" 

"Nay, Tori. We Gaels're experts at this sort o'thing." 

"Raven, you're sure you won't be seen?" Her face creased with worry. Raven, as the white wolf was called, giggled and patted Tori on the back. 

"Miss, my mother had a sense of humor when she named me, but none atall when she showed me our fam'ly honor. Don't you fret, us Lagleths are th'best archers in Aiyar!" Without another word, she half-stood, bent double, and scuttled to a launching position within range. 

* * * 

Ripwing had never really liked coyotes, but he had to admit, they were useful as fighters, and they sure could keep the troops entertained. His suspicions arose from the beginning of the day, however, that something was up. Although there were about a hundred of them in the army, they tended to stick together in little groups of only two or three at a time. When he discovered that a band of sixteen, including that devil Corbann, who could be hard to handle at times, were marching behind his command, the weasel captain made a note to himself to keep an eye out for them. He snorted to himself: huh, the rogues. They'll probably start a fight in the ranks, and of course they could talk their way out of anything. Shang'd hold him responsible, and......uggghhh, he didn't care to think on it. 

So when Corbann made his first slip, Ripwing kept a careful eye on him for the day's march. Mistakenly reporting to him instead of Captain Ghifgur, he gave himself away as being in a stranger's company. Odd, but not unheard of. The horde was so large soldiers tended to get lost sometimes. 

But the charcoaled coyote wasn't the type to _do _that! He'd have thought it out five steps ago in whatever he was trying to achieve. 

Now he approached Ripwing, saluting smartly, which roused even more wariness from the weasel. 

"Captain Ripwang, sah, Ah've just received awduhs from Poe 'erself t'do a liddle scoutin' hereabouts with my group o'troops. Shang don't trust this country: could be en'mies stalkin' those bluffs raht ovah theyah." He pointed over Ripwing's shoulder: Ripwing was reluctant to look, for fear the coyote would pull something on him. 

But he didn't. Corbann stood innocently, looking the very picture of duty. Ripwing began to wonder if he'd been misjudging him. Relaxing, he casually asked for Poe's written orders. He saw Corbann curse to himself mentally, betrayed by the slight flicker of his sooty face. But he kept his cool: he replied that Poe had been so agitated she'd forgotten to write them out. 

"Poe's fastidious," he said distrustfully. "I'm afraid I can't let you go without some proof." 

"Ahh, what use 'ave ye ennyway fer writin'?" Corbann snarled. "Ye couldn't read a lick if yer muthah 'ad a knife t'yaw throat!" He quickly buffeted Ripwing over the head, and sped away from the troops, calling to his accomplices to follow him. The group broke away from the main horde, racing after Corbann, who called aloud for posterity, "Get it afore it gits away! Group o'dang wolves, guerilla-in' on us!" 

* * * 

Ripwing pulled himself up a few minutes later, his head aching and throbbing from Corbann's blow. It took a second or so for him to realize what had just happened: by then, the speedy coyotes were far away, or hidden in the very bluffs they were pretending to be protecting the horde from. Cursing himself, he began a stumbling, halting run toward the head of the column, toward Shang and her commanders. 

* * * 

Raven sat perched behind some rocks, scanning the scene below for possible targets. Her quick black eyes darted around the front of the host of vermin and enemies. 

"Lessee, now, that one perhaps?" she murmured to herself, "or you, ferret, up at th'front? Ahh, doesn't matter, yer all th'same to me: bad." She smiled slowly as a perfect messenger ran into view. A moving target, not too hard. "For yer all bright white against this dark, spring land!" she said aloud, and drew back the monstrous weapon. 

* * * 

"Shang! Shaaaang! Mutiny! Traitors! Help!" 

Shang Widowmaker turned impatiently at one of her buffoon captains screeching her name. She sighed disparagingly. 

"No need to tell the whole world, idiot, they know we're coming. Poe, tell me, who is that imbecile?" 

The ferret squinted at the approaching figure. "Weasel, m'lady. Looks t'be Ripwing. Must've been some run, poor fool commands the very back of the army." 

Ripwing was wildly waving his paws in the air, drawing stares and sniggers from the troops. He ignored them, or else didn't hear, and ploughed on toward the three foxes at the head. 

"Mother, why can't you find some captains with sense? If they're all as dumb as this one, what hopes have we of conquering the southlands?" Tatyanna questioned, boredom and sarcasm heavy on her voice. 

Shang was about to rebuke her uppity daughter when they heard a scream from one of the troops. In the blink of an eye, Ripwing lay slain before them, an arrow only a giant could have shot protruding through his back. He had been not twenty feet away from them. The vixen immediately took command. 

"Get that arrow out of him before the whole army sees it and goes into fear-shock!" she yelled to a fox behind her amid the sudden consternation. "I don't care what you do with the body, but remove that!" She threw the unfortunate beast toward to carcass and contemptuously watched him pry out the shaft. "Here, fool, let me!" she snapped, and swiftly pulled the arrow out of the body and kicked it aside. She was about to snap it in half when she noticed that the middle was covered in wax: beneath it was some sort of paper. Pretending to make nothing of it, she concealed it in her dress and decided to open it when the episode had been quickly forgotten. 

* * * 

Tori almost leapt up with excitement. "Did she receive it? I can hardly tell! Oh, Adia, you must have better eyes than I do. Tell me what you see!" 

Adia chuckled. "Other than young Raven beamin' through those rocks, I spy a very thrown-off Shang Wid'maker tryin' t'hide that arrow under her dress! Silly thing, I s'pose she keeps all 'er recovered weaponry there as well!" 

Raven came panting up through the boulders. Tori was upon her immediately. "Did she get it?" 

"Aye, yes, she got it, Tori lass: that an' a pretty unexpectin' look on 'er face when it were delivered!" The trio was soon heaving up and down with stifled laughter: a huge weight had been lifted from Tori's shoulders. Now she _knew _she would get to avenge her family. She recalled what she had written to Shang in the challenge. 

> > "Funny, you are such a great conqueror, yet you know not enough   
to slay all your enemies when you are done! Here I am, Shang. Tori   
Rubyhaer, who will continue my parents' dynasty and rebuild   
Leedsdown once again! Do you wish to defend yourself on the boast   
you made when you pushed me off the Welshentie Cliffs? Then be   
at the ruins in two moons time. I will be waiting to see you once again. 

Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer, daughter of   
Colvin and Derynai, heir to their legacy,   
never to equal it." "Well, we'd best be headin' back. We've done what we came for, and it's a day's march back to the others," Raven reminded them. "I hope they're still waitin' for us when we get back." 

"Aye, yer right, child. Mayhaps my Aelfwald has seen a fight nearby coming without us! Fancy him leaving us out!" 

* * * 

The seething vixen crumbled the waxen message angrily and pitched it into the fire. A tempestuous rage began building inside her. She flung the curtains of her tent aside and stormed away from the camp. Racing to the edge of the sentry line, she shook her fist at the full moon and screamed, "Aye, foolish child! Look upon this moon shining down upon ye now, it will be one of the last ones you'll see!" 

The horde began heading north again the next morning.   
  



	8. VII

John examined Tori as they continued marching northward. It was three days since she had delivered her ultimatum, and there was a bounce in her walk that he'd never seen before. "You're certainly actin' chipper this mornin'," he inquired. "What's wrong?" 

Tori giggled like a pup. "Nothing. I just feel great, now that I know I won't miss my chance. We have two moons to get to Leedsdown, and then we will meet Shang in battle, and I can die feeling justified." 

" 'Tis nothing to be excited about, Tori," Llawder said quietly from behind her. "Battles mean death an' dyin' of many creatures." 

"Exactly what I was goin' t'say," John added seriously. "Though he put it better than I would've. I can't say I'm eager f'this. What you've given us is a dyin' day and a date t'remember fallen comrades on." 

Tori looked slightly crestfallen at their reactions. "I know what you guys are telling me, but I can't help feeling lifted at the thought. What I'm trying to say is that I won't miss the chance to avenge all who died because of Shang Widowmaker's grudge. Do you see what I mean?" 

Llawder nodded, but persisted in his sober mood on the subject. "Are you willing to die for that?" He was almost surprised by the ferocity of her "yes". She smiled a little again. 

"Just humor me for a bit. I know what it means, but I know that it will happen, and that's reassuring in itself, y'know?" 

John chuckled. "Somehow I don't share your exact enthusiasm, but okay." He turned his gaze frontwards again. "Hey look, there's trees. We're gettin' into a woodland." 

Elsewhere in the expeditionary group, Sheryl nodded to herself, speaking aloud to no one in particular. "Yes, we should be coming near the Dartmouth River soon. Then I've just got to follow it to the coast to get to Mohaercrest. Ohh, I hope everything is all right there...." 

Rivenna gave her a light punch, having only overheard the first part. "C'mon, mouse: you, goin' all that way alone? We'll spare a beast or two t'escort ye to y'home. Y'won't 'ave t'pass th'time talkin' to y'self crazy-like." She winked. 

Taiga nodded, staring off into space. "Yeah, sorta reminds me of old Uncle Portnon. Always talkin' t'faeries, or so 'e sometimes claimed." 

Tamga coughed, and said pseudo-seriously, "All right, no need to talk about people while they're in front of you. But I'm tellin' yeh, Queen Mab likes takin' meals with me sometimes!" There were sniggers around him. He looked about naively. "What?" The Gaels around him burst out laughing, and began jostling him good-naturedly in their native language. 

Liam had no one to talk to. He'd listen to snatches of chattings around him, had tried conversing with Paul about the scenery, but it had gone nowhere. There wasn't all that much scenery anyway, so why would there be something to talk about? he reasoned, telling himself that the grapes were sour anyway. He set his footpaws to marching in a different beat than the other migrants, and hummed a song that he'd especially liked back in Manchester. 

"I don't feel as if I know you, you take up all my time.   
The days are long and the nights will blow you away 'cause   
the sun don't shine.   
Nobody even mentions the weather can make or break your day.   
Nobody ever seems to remember, life is a game we play.

"We live in the shadows and we, had the chance and threw it away,   
And it's never gonna be the same, 'cause the years are fallin' by like the rain.   
It's never gonna be the same, 'till the life I knew   
comes to my house and says Hello! 

"There ain't no sense in feelin' lonely, they got no faith in you.   
Well, I got a feelin' you still owe me, so wipe the dirt from your shoes.   
Nobody ever mentions the weather can make or break your day.   
Nobody ever seems to remember, life is a game we play. 

"Hello, hello.....it's good to baaaaack, hello!" He was snapped out of his daydream by clapping, cheers, and whistles. 

"Nice singin', town dog!" Rivenna remarked indiscreetly to Samhain, who burst out in barely controlled giggles. He'd been singing aloud! Liam felt his ears go fiery hot, and looked at his shuffling feet as the silence faded and gave way to conversation once more. 

Rivenna turned her attentions to Llawder. "Hey sourpuss, how's life in th'front ranks? I'm hearin' such somber talk up ahead I think me 'n' Samhain are in a happy bubble back 'ere!" 

Llawder smiled, and replied to her in Gaelic. The Aiyarians gave him some impressed nods and looks at his swift comeback. 

"What did you just say?" Michael inquired. 

"Well, we have this old joke going. I'm naturally a fairly serious mouse, and she always used to joke that I was trapped in a sad bubble. So I told her to burst hers' and divvy up some of her jollility with the rest. Everybody knows you're s'posed to share." 

"Tori seems to have caught it," Wynnstream came in. "I ain't never seen 'er this happy. Kinda strange. She seems pretty careless, like she don't care what 'appens next, as long as she gets to 'er destination in the end." 

"So tell me what's wrong with that, chaps?" Nora popped up. Before she could be replied to, a frustrated bark arose from Gowran. 

" 'Tis so dead silent an' oppressive 'ere with us'ns all gloom an' doom suddenly! Let's do somethin' t'pass th'time or we'll all suffocate!!" 

"I'll drink t'that," Aelfwald agreed. "Name gamin', how 'bout that? Somebody start quickly or I'll bite yer tails off, alla yah!" 

"Name gaming? What's that?" Paul asked. 

"You try an' guess who someone is founded on a rhyme somebeast makes up based on their name. Then th'subject does one. We Gaels're forever talkin' etymology and bardin' an' all that." 

Meanwhile, clever Ellis Underwood had come up with a starter. "Oh gimme a squirrel with a short stub tail, an' a long stretched-out nose holdin' sharp teeth and ale. She jokes and jests and sings our ole classics, but with berries fer friends she's always up to tricks!" 

Eirann, one of the cooks, giggled and nudged Ellis. "That 'un's too easy, y'great fraud! 'Tis Samhain sure enough. Off with yeh, 'tis her turn now." 

Samhain tilted her head, considering briefly, then she coyly contributed her riddle. "His breath is as bad as old fish from the sea. He knows all 'bout you, water, and swimmin' in thee. His parents in him saw oceans reflected blue, and his name, dear captor, is derived from you." 

A Gael called Kelso acted indignant. "How dare you, nuthead! Me breath is as fair as yours any day!" He half-smiled, and admitted, "Yer too timid when it comes to th'challengin' ones. Me name is straight Gaelic fer 'ocean': lemme show ye how a real namer's done." He cleared his throat, and announced, "These brother two live above us and below: in character alone they could be bird and mole. Mama and Pop are faeries both, but we all know how they can sing an' boast." 

There was silence as the group marched on. Tori tried offering a suggestion. "Liam and Noel. Is it Liam and Noel?" 

"Nope," Kelso grinned gleefully. No one else tried for a little while. 

"Jeez, Kelso, ye've given us a true poser!" Bocton said, stupefied. "Be a pal an' tell uz who it 'tis." 

"Have ye no clue? I thought that was an easy 'un," Kelso complained comically. "Aw, yer all appearin' as though ye've nothin' between yer ears. Come now, 'tis under yer very noses! Especially you, Grensade. I'm ashamed of you!" 

Grensade was an enormously tall wolf. He was also father to Rivenna and husband to Ossian, Aelfwald's sister. Thinking for a moment, he decided to take Kelso's advice literally, and he glanced down at the wolf in front of him. It dawned on him quickly. "Dyfed and Dysart, of course! Good gracious, Kelso, yer wicked!" 

John leaned over to Tori. "I don't understand: translate fer a poor ignorant knave." 

Tori explained. " 'Dyfed' means sky and 'dysart' is forest. Apparently they're twins, with very different personalities. I remember now; I walked with their parents a little a few days ago: Dryad and Neriad, lovely creatures both. It's okay, though, that was a stumper even to those who knew them." 

"Ah," John replied, and asked of the twins, "Hey, how 'bout givin' us outsiders a bit of a break an' tellin' us 'bout someone we all know." 

Dysart's (or Dyfed's: it was hard to tell with one who didn't know them) eyes twinkled. "Surely, friend. Alright, brother, who can we do?" The pair held a mumbled conversation, and Dyfed straightened up and issued his challenge. 

"This poor beast is marked with misfortune, laid upon him since the day he left home. Paired with strangers whose heads were born a bit awry, his position to someone else he wishes to loan!" 

"Is he talkin' about uz?" Owen asked his partner in a stage whisper, provoking wry smiles as the rest of the company tried to puzzle their rhyme. 

"Nay, he's talkin' of yon otter," Adia smiled. "Mister Wynnstream Pikepaw, I do believe. The stage is yours." 

The otter scratched his head. "Er, I en't ne'er done this b'fore, maybe some other beast who's more skilled at it should try---" 

He was greeted with enthusiastic cheers of "Aw, go on, 'ave a go!", and "Yes, y'never know 'till y'try!" 

He shuffled his feet slightly, looking at them as he consented, "All right, well, here goes nothin', don't you be laffin' at me now." He cleared his throat nervously, and began, smiling every now and then. "There once was a wolf named Tori, who had a friend who was quite boring. He has a scruffy coat, and a long thin angular nose, and he'll probably get me for this recognition!" 

Amidst the smothered guffaws, Tori elbowed John and winked. "I think somebody saw us past the mission." 

John grinned, and nodded. "Yup, I think we've got us a spy on our paws." He stuck his nose into the air and walked a few steps with an overdone snobbery swagger, snorting. "Imagine, th'cruel beast, not lettin' us to our privacy, huh!" 

* * * 

At the campfire that night, Tori, Michael, and Sheryl were deep in conversation as the others larked about and sang bawdy compositions. 

"We know that you have to go to your abbey, Sheryl," Michael was saying, more for himself than anything, "but why? All that verse told us was 'Healer who teetered on the Cliffs, go back, now, before they fall. Home may soon be hollow if you stay within these walls.' That was you, obviously, and you've left Redwall, but from it sounds like, Mohaercrest will plunge into the sea if you don't return soon." 

"I've no idea, Michael, but if anything were to happen to my home, well..." Sheryl trailed off. Tori nodded in agreement. 

"It hurts. Yes, I know." Aelfwald lumbered towards them, tired from the rambunctious carousing of the younger Gaels. Noel Gallagher had just discovered lager, and both he and his brother were fast becoming roaring drunk on the beverage, much to the others' amusement. He smiled and chuckled a little at youth. 

"They're certainly enjoyin' themselves loudly enough," he grunted, looking over his shoulder at Liam, who was dancing atop one of the logs. "I thought I might coom over and spend some passin' moments with sane, unpossessed creatures. Now what-all is a-goin' on here?" 

"We received a message that I was to return home to my abbey immediately," the healer's apprentice explained. "We don't know why. That's why I'm here with you. Sometime soon I'll have to split up with you, as Leedsdown is in the complete opposite direction." 

Aelfwald was taken aback. "Surely yer not conceedin' of goin' there alone? Ye'll need some company!" Before the mousemaid could protest, he said firmly, "I'll pick yer companions by paw m'self! No friend of mine is travellin' through this country without some protection, at th'very least!" 

Sheryl smiled bashfully, honored that the majestic wolf considered her a personal friend. Tori leaned forward, propping an elbow on her crossed legs. 

"So when d'you think you'll diverge from us?" 

The mouse looked at her paws, reasoning to herself aloud. "We're at the southern part of Dale, so the Dartmouth can't be very far. I think within the next day or so." 

Aelfwald was looking through the small drove of wolves in the firelight. "Owen and Caerleon, there's a pair of stout beasts," he was muttering to himself in his own language. "Craig, Bocton, Kelso, Dyfed'n'Dysart, they'll do. Do them good t'get away from their parents for once, too. Be a shame t'miss Bocton, though, he's always got a laugh handy. And what a player too! Those pipes of his are pure magic. 

"And Samhain, maybe? Nay, for without Rivenna she'll go nowhere. Lessee, Grensade? He's quite old for _that _sort of thing. Hmm..." He stood up and wandered off, talking to himself. Tori smiled, watching him go. Her head snapped at a hesitant voice saying her name. 

"Lady Rubyhaer, permission to speak something?" 

A wolf was standing behind her, bowing, and averting his eyes. His accent was nothing Gaelic in the least: his markings were also of a citydwelling continent inhabitant. She arose, her eyes questioning. 

"Yes, friend?" 

He timidly raised his head a little, venturing a look into her face, against all his instincts. "You are the Lady Rubyhaer, aren't you. Any Leedsdowner would recognize your royal face." 

"Please, Tori," she insisted. 

"Tori," he repeated uncomfortably, after a moment's pause. He stopped, and wrung his paws. Tori noticed one wrapped in Redwall bandages: he held the obviously injured limb gingerly. He glanced up at her, as if asking if he could say something. She realized that this wolf was another survivor, though accustomed to the feeling of some of the more destitute areas' treatment of richer beasts or royalty as higher beings. 

"Um, my name is Osric. I was a grocer's assistant in a shop on the north side." 

"Oh, you're from Lorgrove?" she inquired. 

"Yes," he replied, surprised that she should know the name of their city's poorest borough. "I was taken prisoner by those foxes," he continued, gaining a bit of confidence. "They captured a few, to keep and torture. I was one: they would keep us in pens, and force us to wear collars and leashes. 

"There were a few otters, and about three other wolves. One of them was obviously not a commoner. She wore fine clothing and jewelry, although they were tattered and stained. She still wore the strap from a quiver when we were kept together. She was thin and weak, but now that I look at you, I can see her in your face. Shang called her Silverweed, but when she regained her voice, about a moon after the-the...Well, she told us she was Leah Sealskinfur. A day or two after, they took me out with a coyote, called Hexlor or Hestor or something. I never saw her again: after dragging me through the countryside, Hexlor pinned me to a tree by this," Osric held up his bandaged paw, "and left me for dead. Good thing the Gaels came and found me or he would have succeeded." 

Tori had been stiffening at each word Osric had told her. Her shocked rigidity was interpreted by the grocer's assistant as offense. He shrank back from her, apologizing profusely, but the Rubyhaer merely sank to her knees and began weeping half joyfully and half with the memory of her harsh grief. She took Osric's paw, and begged of him tearfully, "Please, tell me, was it truly my sister you saw alive?" 

He nodded earnestly. "I'm almost sure of it, from the pictures I saw of her and seeing and comparing you now." 

"Great seasons and heavens above," she whimpered, and curled into a ball. She smiled gratefully at the wolf. "Thank you. Beyond words, thank you, Osric." 

* * * 

Corbann was hopelessly lost. In his attempt to escape the Widowmaker's horde as quickly as possible, they had plunged into the wilderness, their sense of direction completely fuddled by the thick hardwood forest. Now one of his followers, Snakear, seemed about ready to revolt with the fourteen others. He stood before Corbann accusingly, addressing him with contempt. 

"So whut've we gawt tuh show fer yawr grand ahdeahs, Corb'n? We'll go an' start ah own army, wunce we git back daywn saouth. We'll be lahk this ol' fable o' yours, Ferahgo or whatnot, terror of th'southlan's. Naow we's headin' furthuh nawth, an' all we got's t'show fer all that is a rivuh! A golldang, stankin' rivuh!" 

Corbann sneered, his claws wrapped around the handle of his dagger, just in case. "Y'all are too impatient, tha's yawr problem! Wunce we git outta this an' find sum good open land, we're home free!" 

"Thou'rt right, strangers. Home free ye definitely are not." 

The coyotes whirled around at the strange, heavily accented voice. A stern-looking wolf stood behind Corbann silently, his arms crossed. He bowed with restrained curtness. 

"I'll be askin' thee t'leave our land presently. M'wife and I are quite attached to our solitude. If you're wantin' open land, th'cliffs aren't too far from here, I'd be happy to guide thee there..." 

It all happened quite quickly. Corbann was about to reply to the wolf when one of his cronies whipped out a cutlass and challenged the "uppity hermit." The wolf charged, wielding a large sword they hadn't seen concealed in the shadow. Rushing toward them, he bellowed a battle cry that rang throughout the wet night. 

"Gooooosaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!" 

A small fracas ensued: the wolf managed to fell three of his coyotes when Morpeth, a former officer, shoved dead Snakear's rusty dagger through his shoulders. The wolf stiffened, shuddered, and, gasping harshly, died. A relived hush quickly settled on them. Quaking with the severity of the sudden attack, Corbann croaked, "Let's git outta heyuh! If Ah knows wolves, they's always hungry fer revenge!" The reduced band stole ever eastward, toward the promise of the open land and cliffs that the slain wolf had peacefully offered them. As they fled through the woodland, an accusatory, grief-stricken howl ripped behind them. Gosa Felf's wife had found him. 

* * * 

Nora was listening to some of the wolves talk of love and lust, trying to decipher the speedy Gaelic for herself. Winks, nods, and sniggers were abundant, and the hare was quite peeved that she didn't have the slightest clue what they were about. 

"Listen, chaps, have pity on a poor iggerant harebelle! Wot's all the fuss about?" she demanded, paws akimbo. 

Still, the "cruel" Gaels remained silent, only breathing between their raucous laughter. Through merry tears, Ellis punched her lightly in the side, the particular place where he was aching, and explained haltingly, 

"Heeheehee! We were jus' sayin', haha! that if you an' Tamga were t-to-to-to--I can't do this, lads, 'tis too comical! If you an' our resident short-eared lug Tamga were t'marry, the kids would turn out fair normal. Ye'd surely balance each other out!" 

Nora was thoroughly incensed. 

"Me an' a bloomin wolf-chappie?" she exploded, stomping her large feet furiously. "Porpoiseterous! The very thought of it! Oooo!" 

Ronin and Wynnstream could not help but to push the temperamental hare a bit more. "Took ye long enough to catch on to her, Ellis, old pal," the squirrel grinned maliciously. "I've been watchin' Nora: stares at Tamga all th'derry long day she does!" 

Wynn elbowed Ronin and winked. "Y'say that's strange, but I know you, y'old faker. You stay 'way from my Eirann: she's marryin' me!" 

"Well, Wynn, at least ye'd never go hungry!" Gowran poked. This, of course, set the wolves up in torrents of laughter. 

Chester watched them calmly. He crossed his lanky legs and leaned sideways to Taiga. "I say, that would be quite an interestin' fam'ly portrait. I can't quite picture it without shuddering." 

Tamga's twin chuckled. "A strange and impossible adultery it would have to be. He's promised to Samhain, poor dear. Samhain, I mean!" 

Meanwhile, Liam and Rivenna were fiercely arguing. The Mancunian was of the firm opinion that he knew better songs than she did, as they'd been written by his brother. He was drunk, of course, but his showbeast nature was increased by this and his ability to be a substantial braggart. Rivenna, fed up with his immaturity, told him, to be precise, that his music was repetitious and badly-sung. To wolves, as Michael, Sheryl, Wynnstream, and the hares soon discovered, that was quite possibly one of the worst insults one could hurl at another. A vicious verbal fight ensued, interspaced with songs so bitterly competitive, they were nearly perfect with a terrible kind of beauty. The Gael rolled off a few of her own compositions, like "Witness," "Black," and a cover of one of Tori's own songs, "Precious Things." Liam fired back with gregarious and arrogant performances of "Rock 'N' Roll Star," "Fade In-Out," and a Beatle favorite of his, "I Am The Walrus." 

_"MENAAAAA! _That's _it!"_

The hideous shriek silenced the entire camp. What had started as a playful jest between the two had escalated and touched Rivenna's Gaelic blood. Quick to spark, she became so angry that she began hurling curses and insults at Liam in language a searat would have blushed at. Liam just stood there, stunned at the sudden assailment over such a trivial game. 

Grensade and his wife Ossian instantaneously crashed through the watchers to their daughter and pulled her back to a distant corner of the camp. Instantly, John and Paul jumped in and tried cheering others up with performance of their comical composition "Maxwell's Silver Hammer", hoping the incident could be quickly bypassed in their comrade's memories. 

Once they were out of the hearing range of their peers, Grensade turned to Rivenna, his eyes burning furiously. He berated ferociously their in their native tongue. 

"What was that? I'm shocked at you, losing control like that over such a nothing!" 

Rivenna, exhausted by her frenzy, began crying helplessly and lifted a limp paw for an accusatory gesture. "I couldn't help it, Father, he insulted our fam'ly pride." 

"Liam? I agree with you, he's a skinny little brat. I do not blame your momentary anger, but such an outburst was uncalled for." 

"I hate him, Father!" she blurted. "But it's only him!" 

"That's a sad excuse," Grensade replied cynically. "Would you have done that to Noel? You were seething like the devil, so I don't doubt you would've." 

Rivenna cried, "Noel?! He's th'decent one! Liam? He's a fair lazy an' arrogant knave! A prop'r self-centered scoundrel and babby! I can't stand to be around him one second more!" 

"Rivenna," her mother said softly, her voice crackling, "thou art actin' th'babby." 

The purple-black wolf stared uncomprehendingly at them. Why couldn't they understand her frustration? 

Her mother saw this rage. Tersely, Ossian, a stately red-obsidian Alsatian Gael from whom her daughter had gained her unique coloring, drew herself up coldly and declared to Rivenna, "You have shamed us, child. You will no longer travel with us until you have redeemed our name. Tonight I will speak with Rampek Aelfwald: I am sure he won't hesitate to put you in the guard for the mouse Sheryl. I won't have you hanging about like a vagabond here. Samhain will stay with us: we need good fighters for this battle at Leedsdown." Without another word, she stiffly left, followed by her husband. Rivenna stood at the edge of the camp, looking after them pitifully, quivering and weeping painfully. Her parents, their backs still turned against her, disappeared into the thick shadows cast by the hollow firelight among the trees. 

* * * 

John turned to Paul after they finished watching the ten Gaels leave with Sheryl after a hard goodbye. Rivenna, a sudden addition, was causing knowing whispers and nods among the throng of Aiyar wolves. Grensade and Ossian stood tall and silent, refusing to look her in the eye. Blackbirdberry, for the first time in her life, drooped. She looked so weak from tears and frantic apologies that she seemed about to shatter. If it weren't for Samhain, who had unhesitatingly chosen to accompany her, she surely would had physically fallen over. Liam, luckily, was nowhere to be seen. 

Ten Gaels in all were going with Sheryl: Bocton, Kelso, Owen, Caerleon, Osric, Rivenna, Samhain, Dysart, Dyfed, and Craig. Each of the travelers was given a heartfelt message from Aelfwald and Adia, along with their blessings. To Rivenna, the Gnodfe had simply said, "You will reciprocate yourself for this. Learn what you can. Show me that shame cannot last." 

They had just vanished through the trees, without few backwards glances. 

This was when John murmured to Paul beside him, "Listen, mate, I've got t'take a short breather. Call of nature, don't y'know." 

Paul nodded, not taking his watch off the vacancy left by the eleven others. "Right. See yeh in a few." With wily expertise, John slipped away. 

The thick spearhead pricking menacingly in between his shoulder blades soon after was an unwelcome surprise. John jumped in shock, and kept deathly still as he listened to the cold voice behind him. 

"All right, lowlife. Tell us what you were doing with the mouse and her wolves. Why'd you let them go? And why are trespassin' on our land?" 

"Can I turn around?" he asked, his eyes darting as he held his paws up peacefully. 

Another voice from behind him said bluntly, "Why not. I think this is not one who can do us any wrong. No fox is he." John could tell the strange, soft accent and the voice was not used to speaking so gruffly. Slowly, ever mindful of the weapon pointed at him, he turned around submissively so that he could argue looking into their eyes. 

His aggressors were an unlikely-looking pair indeed: a small, smokey-gray wolf was brandishing the spear and glaring at him; over her shoulder, a willowy, delicate foreigner ---a dog, the likes of which weren't often seen on this continent--- examined him cautiously with deep, perpetually worried brown eyes. 

The short wolf cocked her head backward to the dog, never taking her watch off John. "Seluki, go get Tomé. There's something he needs to see." 

John watched the gossamer dog slip through the vegetation toward some destination unknown to him. "By th'fur, she's one fer hidin' in this mess!" he tried joking so as to distract the spearpoint that was edging closer and closer to his throat. "She's so fragile-lookin' she barely exists!" 

"You shut up!" the wolf hissed vehemently, doing exactly the opposite with the spear as he'd hoped. John gulped painfully, still holding up his paws. His gaze began flitting again: he wondered how far he was from camp. His rolled his eyes upward to look at the morning sun: higher now than when he'd left. They'd probably be wondering where he was by about now. 

"Tori...." he said cautiously. His voice rose. "Tori..." 

"Are you trying to insult me?!" his captor growled. 

"Why d'you say that?" John inquired, glancing sideways, wishing he could be hearing Paul's giant, clumsy footsteps through the choking foliage. 

The wolf's expression fell vulnerably for an instant. Then she hardened once more. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand. You've never had a home to lose, I'm sure." 

"Now now now, listen, let's be reasonable, mum," he tried, backing away slightly. He dug for another conversation topic. "Say, where in Leedsdown were y'from? 'Cause yer accent might place you kinda near where I was---" 

"Do you want to know what color your innards are!?!!" 

John heard several different creatures coming from all surrounding directions. Hopefully, he continued. "I lived in Allerton Kirkwood. Hey, didn't I go t'primary school with you? No, maybe not. Me dad was th'local cobbler. Mike O'Lennain, pr'aps you knew 'im, he got business from all 'round, mebbe I saw you there...." 

Three different things happened at once. Actually, more like five. The she-wolf, who had been stolidly listening to John, could not contain the sudden droplets of water that welled up in her diamond-hard eyes. His poignant chattering of the life they'd both lost caused all feeling to leave her paws, and she dropped the spear to the loam-covered ground with a dulled thud. She stood there, paws to her side, quivering. 

Tori burst through the underbrush. 

Seluki returned, along with another wolf, horribly scarred by something: it looked like fire. 

The wolf who had been guarding John gasped, and threw herself to Tori's feet. "Your Majesty," she sobbed, "I-I did not--we all thought--" 

Shocked at what she had begun as a simple search for John, Tori tried to summon all the calming methods she'd seen her mother perform on awestruck pilgrims. They came out a stutter. "Y-y-y-you too are, a, a, a Leedsdown--survivor?" 

The smokey wolf lifted her head from the ground, tears in her eyes. "Yes, I am," she said softly. 

Tori offered a paw, to help her up. The wolf accepted it, somewhat timidly. Her companions stared. 

"Branwen, what are you doing?" the scarred wolf exclaimed in shock. 

Tori tried laughing easily. "Oh, it's alright, she can touch me if she wants, I'm not holy." She turned to her compatriot. "Branwen? Beautiful name. I was just about to ask what it was." 

Branwen made a small curtsy, accompanied by a nervous smile. "Many thanks, Lady Rubyhaer. Yes, Branwen MacIntyre, of the Arborium MacIntyres." 

Tori stared at her enviously. "You lived in Arborium? You lucky! I can't think of a more beautiful section of the city!" 

The slightly bemused Branwen agreed a bit proudly. "Yes, me neither. B-but what of Tyne Palace? Didn't you like it? Umm--Lady," she appended hastily. 

John held in a giggle. "Lady?" he asked. "No wonder she didn't like it. I can't imagine a whole slew o'beasts callin' yeh that day in an' day out! Y'd go mad, I should think. I would." 

"Don't you know who this is?" the crane-like dog asked him wondrously. John shrugged. 

"Oh, yeah, we've been travellin' in each other's company for a while now. 'Tis th'heiress of Tundralake 'erself, on 'er way back north t'fight Widowmaker for what she did." Silence trickled between them. John was confused. "Did I say somethin' amiss?" 

"Tomé," Seluki whispered to the scarred one, staggered, "it's just like you said it would be!" More silence prevailed. Tori looked among them. 

"Would you like to join us?" the red wolf asked. 

The answer was immediate. "I've been waiting for this day longer than there have been days in between then and now!" Branwen swore, glowing. "Let us collect our camp: you go ahead, we will follow you." She stopped, pausing a minute to look sincerely into Tori's green eyes. She liked what met her. She added, "In everything."   
  



	9. VIII

Chester Halifax did a double-take to see five creatures emerge from a spot where two had gone in. 

"Hello, what's this?" he said, standing up. 

John shrugged and jerked a paw over his shoulder. "New recruits. Once they figured out we weren't vermin they were willin' t'come with. You know how these things go." 

Chester smiled wanly. "Rather." 

Tori was looking around the outfit. "Well, we're just about to leave now, so I guess just walk with somebody and it doesn't really matter where." 

Branwen smilingly obliged, hefting her backpack and approaching the first wolf she came across. It was Ringo. She held out a paw. 

"Hi, my name's Branwen. I guess I'll be marching with you." She grinned crookedly. 

Ringo grinned back, secretly pleased that he'd finally discovered a wolf shorter than himself. "I'm Ringo, nice t'meet yeh. Where y'from, Branwen?" 

At the customary bellow of "TOYDAAAA!!" from Gowran, the troupe began northwards again. Seluki and Tomé lingered at the back of the line. Seluki was deceptively weak-looking, but she soon surprised everyone with her endurance and good cheer, as she was also appeared misleadingly aloof. Tori walked alongside them during the morning, eager to hear their stories. 

Tomé Svenavsurris, as it turned out, had been in an junior foreman in a fish distribution center. As the second child in a family of four, his older brother was of course sent to begin a merchant's career on a ship. Tomé, almost as an afterthought, was put in a position at one Leedsdown's secondary distributors. 

"I'm still very thankful that my brother was away when Shang came, however," he said in his soft, peculiar voice. "That means that all of us got away." 

At the invasion, Tomé forced his elderly parents out of the city with his two little sisters. He stayed behind with his business partners to defend their building in a determined little militia of about thirty. Being inexperienced, though, they were soon wiped out. Tomé was knocked unconscious, and later awoke when he felt himself engulfed by the flames of a nearby plundered cart. He was so sluggish that it took him several seconds to ward the fire off. "That's how I attained my new good looks," he half-joked, unconsciously touching his scorched shoulder. 

In the aftermath of the invasion, he was found by Seluki and Branwen. 

"Yes, we found a cart that hadn't been destroyed, and we looked for survivors," Seluki interceded. "We found a few others besides Tomé who were still alive, but they died soon afterwards." 

"Mm-hmm. It was then that I had, ohhh, I don't know what to call it, a hallucination. A mouse appeared to me and said to me, 'With countryman comes the Red Princess, on her way to avenge the rest.' I didn't quite know what it meant until today." He bowed, smiling wryly. "So here's to you, Red Princess, for fulfilling the phantom mouse's prophecy." 

"So, anything you particularly remember about this mouse?" Tori asked. 

Tomé was nodded thoughtfully, looking off into space, when he stopped dead and stared. "Good gracious, there he is, twice!" Tori looked to where he was gawking. He was looking straight at Llawder and Michael. 

Wynnstream chuckled. "Why, 'tis no wonder ye think yer seein' double. They're cousins twice removed, or so I gather." 

Tomé turned abruptly once again. "An otter!" he beamed. "The most sensible beasts I ever met, the members of Farnell-on-the-Sea," he continued nostalgically. He and Wynnstream were soon engaged in conversation. 

The Rubyhaer turned to the willowy gray-white dog walking beside her. "So that leaves you, Seluki. What's your tale?" 

Her graceful head was turned slightly to the side, giving Tori a three-quarter profile. "I come from a land far to the west of here, three moons sailing across the sea. Shinoise, it is called. As you know, Leedsdowners were wayward and worldly when they go seafaring. They've been trading with us for ages. I'm the daughter of the most profitable merchant in Catal Hyunn, our capital. I was betrothed to Willis Tranbury when I was but a few seasons old. Did you know him?" 

"Heavens yes!" Tori exclaimed. She chose her words carefully. "He was...." 

Seluki laughed softly. "Oh, you can say it. He was a disgusting fat cow of a wolf. When I saw him for the first time, I begged the captain of my ship to take me back to my father and send someone else to marry in my place." 

"What happened?" the wolf asked curiously. 

Seluki sighed. "We were married for three weeks before this fox came. They were horrible. I'm almost glad that Shang came, in a selfish sort of way. It at least freed me of Willis. Tori, let me tell you this, betrothal rhymes with betrayal in more ways than one. Walking down that wedding aisle was the longest stretch of land in my life." She looked directly at Tori in a slightly disturbing way. "Were you ever betrothed? You know, royalty, for political reasons?" 

Tori cocked her head thoughtfully. "You know, I don't think I ever was. As heir to the throne, I suppose I could have had anybeast I pleased." 

* * * 

In between his fevered dreams, George would occasionally hear voices. Many of them he recognized, but the most infuriating ones were those he _knew _he knew but could not place. Above them all suddenly drifted a hushed whisper. 

"Such a frail body, but such an uncrushable soul. I don't think I've ever seen a creature fight so hard to recuperate in all my born days...." 

"Me neither, Sister. 'E fainted just after Tori an' them left, an' 'e ain't wakened up since." Sister Joan and Merril. George felt himself harshly gasp for breath, but it was another body: he was standing in front of the mouse, shaking her by the shoulders, pointing to the next room over. 

Joan had a peculiar expression on her face, as if she were remembering something. Her eyes widened. "Jakob!" 

Michael's son had been struggling with his pneumonia for weeks on end. There were no signs of improvement at all. 

The small room the pair of Infirmary keepers rushed into was virtually empty, save the bed and table holding the patient and his medicines. Jakob's eyes were half-open, and his lips were moving faintly. 

"Marm?" 

Merril turned at the voice. Tryffen stood at the doorway, holding a Long Patrol beret limply in his shaking paws. Her brown furrowed in confusion. "Tryff? What're you doin' 'ere?" 

The hare looked bewildered. "I dunno, really. Antisle told me I had t'get back to Redwall, so here I am." What little color left in his face drained as he peered over the otter to see Jakob. "Though now I know why." He stepped forward falteringly. "Can I, come over?" Merril and Joan stepped aside: the hare kneeled beside the bed and grasped his friend's listless paw. 

"Jacko?" he implored, using his teasing name for the mouse. "Jacko, can y'hear me? Come back, will you?" His voice crackled hopefully as Jakob's eyes flitted. 

* * * 

A strange mouse, yet altogether familiar, was standing before Michael as he looked into his small fire. Michael looked up with a start. 

"Yes?" he asked. 

The stranger stared clearly back at him. Then Martin bowed his head briefly. "I have someone who wishes to speak with you, friend." 

A glimmer of recognition passed through him as Michael stiffened painfully. "Well, then, bring him out, by all means." An instinct, and the memory of his son lying in the infirmary, rasping for breath through drowning lungs, told him who it was. 

Jakob stepped out from behind the black. He smiled through tears, and embraced his father. 

"Dad, I miss you," he told him simply. The Champion of Redwall desperately searched for words, but none would surface. "This is Martin," Jakob continued. "He said he'd take care of me until we find Mom." 

Martin smiled, just a sliver. "You won't be needing me for quite some time, you know. Don't worry, he'll be fine." 

Michael stared in agony. "Hyacinth," he whispered, uttering the name of his dead wife for the first time in more than three seasons' time. He then smiled ironically, heavy with affection. He reached out and ruffled Jakob's headfur playfully. "Tell your mum I miss her when you see her." 

Jakob nodded, and grinned. Michael wasn't quite sure he knew what was happening. He reached forward, and hugged his father one last time. "We'll be seeing each other some sunny day soon," the warrior mouse promised softly. Jakob and Martin faded, leaving Michael sitting on a makeshift log bench, stunned. He looked over at Llawder, standing on his left. "My son has just died," he declared in a disbelieving tone. Llawder nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. 

"I know." He had seen. 

* * * 

Jakob's eyes opened fully. He looked up at Tryffen. He beamed happily. 

"Tryffen?" 

The hare leaned forward, tears of joy beading his face. "Yes, ol' chap, it's me!" 

The mouse struggled to keep his eyes open. He continued smiling peacefully. "Hello..." 

* * * 

Samhain was increasingly worried about her friend Rivenna. The shame of her disgrace weighed down upon her heavily, and it showed as she lagged at the back of the body of Gaels, ate alone, and remained silent for much longer than Samhain would have thought. Finally, she could take it no more. As she marched beside her, she leaned close a little bit and began singing a favorite ditty of theirs. 

"Blackbird singin' in the dead of night....take these broken wings an' learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise..." 

Rivenna broke a glimmer of a smile. "Y'fraud," she sniffled, "that's one o' Paul's songs." 

Samhain grinned widely and continued goading her for a laugh. " 'All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die,' says the man next to me out of nowhere apropos of nothing. He says his name's William but I'm sure he's Bill or Billy, Mac or Buddy, he's plain ugly to me..." 

Rivenna was trying desperately to hold on to her grief, but the absurd lyrics burst through her misery and had her giggling soon. Bocton turned around with playful disappointment on his face. 

"Oy, Rivenna, ye just lost me half a ration o' soup just there! Me an' Kelso had a bet goin' that you'd crack long after this!" 

Rivenna wiped her eyes. "Sorry, Bocton. Mayhap ye just want me t'go divin' back into me depression for your sake? I wouldn't want you t'be starvin' on us, now." 

"Ahh, well, 'tis only Craig Diamondfoot's! More gain fer you, Bocton, t'lose that soup, I'd say!" Caerleon remarked. 

Craig shrugged modestly. "I'm no Eirann, I know. Sorry, lads. But fer that I'll give ye all a sleepin' potion that'll give ye nightmares worse'n havin' t'put up with Kelso's fishbreath!" 

Sheryl felt incredibly alone in the group. The wolves were speaking mostly Gaelic, and when she tried to intervene with a joke or two, to try to make herself pleasant, it never worked. Finally, she slowed down to walk with Osric, the Leedsdown survivor, and asked, "Are they always this mean to each other?" 

Osric shook his head. "They do it because they respect all their fellow creatures highly, and also don't consider vermin worthy enough to be the butts of their jokes. It's all quite good-natured, really." He cracked a smile. "You have to learn how to it proper, though. Here, like this." He threw his head over his shoulder and whispered something to Owen Rannonteg, their Poet. Owen grinned, and replied quietly. Osric turned back to the mouse. "There, we've got a good fire goin' now. I said that I thought for a bit Rivenna was going to change her name to Kircentrest, which is a type of scrub grass that grow in Aiyar's bogs. Owen told me that now she was back on 'er feet, she could grace us with her melodious screechin'. Now Dyfed'll goad her into singing something, probably too bawdy for me t'translate cleanly to you!" 

Sheryl smiled. "I supposed sometime that I ought to learn some Gaelic. It's a pain in the neck to be clueless when your language is the vast minority!" 

* * * 

"Ahhhh, now Samhain, that's one with a voice!" 

There was a chorus of 'aye's from the lonely group of bachelor males poking a meager fire with sticks. After the marching, they'd complained to themselves about the sudden lack of pretty girls to flirt with. Gowran leaned back and stretched luxuriously. 

"Yeeaaahhh, well, she had a nice song she'd just written when she left. She was singin' it to me as of late. 'Ode To My Fam'ly' or something. It were fair nice." 

Silence fell over the wolves. They all were thinking of Tori's own ode to her family, which they'd heard her singing that morning. 

Just before high noon, they'd come upon a clearing in the woods. Noel and Liam had stopped dead in the middle of marching, staring and scared stiff. 

"Is this where it was?" Noel asked his brother, eyes wide. 

Liam had nodded, his paw straying to his chest. "Yeah, I think so." With slightly morbid curiosity, he said aloud, "I wonder if she's still there." 

Noel looked at him. "Who?" 

"You remember, that she-wolf who told us t'run. Let's go over an' check, sorta discreet-like. We don't want 'em freakin' out. Poor thing, maybe we could stop an' bury 'er if we can." They waded through column, drawing some glances and curses. 

The two Mancunians crouched down by bush edging a grove of trees. Noel nodded gravely. "Yup, that's 'er. Strange, thinkin' back on it. I woulda recognized that anywhere." 

"What?" 

Noel pointed unconsciously. "That leather strap. Musta been a dead lovely quiver once: lookit that design pressed innit." 

Tori's eyes widened. _"MENA!! Lefrah fen menax!" _she called to Gowran, who, puzzled, roared out the order for them to stop. Tori's eyes were downcast as she looked at the bleached wolf skeleton lying pitifully before them. It was half filled in with loam, and partly dismembered through the melting of snow and scavengers' ravenges. She stared at the skeleton in mute horror, then quietly stood up. 

"This was my sister Leah," she confirmed quietly. "That's her quiver strap, and here's a ring my mother gave her for her first-score birthday." 

It was obvious that moving would be impaired for the day. Those who had clustered behind the Rubyhaer slowly backed away, nodding knowingly. Aelfwald announced that lunch would be ready soon: they could pack in for a midday rest, for the sun was growing hotter. They retreated back into the forest, John laying a paw on her shoulder and quietly comforting, and then telling her where they'd be. 

"Take y'time, sweetheart." 

Rocking back and forth in a curled position, Tori had, trance-like, begun to sing. 

"Snow can wait, I forgot my mittens.   
Wipe my nose, get my new boots on.   
I get a little warm in my heart   
when I think of winter.   
I put my hands in my father's glove. 

I run off where the drifts get deeper.   
Sleeping Beauty trips me with a frown.   
I hear a voice, 'you must learn   
to stand up   
for yourself, 'cause I can't always be around.' 

He says,   
'When you gonna make up your mind?   
When you gonna love you as much as I do?   
When you gonna make up your mind? 

'Cause things are gonna change so fast.'   
All the white horses are still in bed.   
I tell you that I'll always want you near.   
You say that things change, my dear. 

Boys get discovered as winter melts.   
Flowers competing for the sun.   
Year go by and I'm here still waiting,   
withering where some snowman was. 

'Mirror Mirror where's the Crystal Palace?'   
But I only can see myself.   
Skating around the truth who I am.   
'But I know, Dad, the ice is getting thin.' 

Hair is gray, and the fires are burning.   
So many dreams on the shelf.   
You say 'I wanted you to be proud of me.'   
I always wanted that myself. 

'When you gonna make up your mind?   
When you gonna love you as much as I do?   
When you gonna make up your mind?   
'Cause things are gonna change so fast.' 

All the white horses have gone ahead.   
I tell you that I'll always want you near.   
You say that things change, my dear.   
Never change. Mmmmmm-mmmmmmm........" 

She took a staggered breath, and stood up, having paid simple tribute to her sister. We're getting closer, she thought. Nearer and nearer and nearer. 

Leah's gently smiling face flashed in front of her. It seemed to beckon her. Tori leaned her head over, and listened to her whisper something. Then she smiled. 

_We are happy. We're all together, and we patiently await your arrival._

We are getting closer, she thought. Nearer and nearer and nearer. 

* * * 

"Bah!" Shang spat. "Get yourselves out of my sight! All of you! You too, you soft-bellied, whining weasels! Out!" She kicked after her fleeing daughters in a high temper, snarling and baring her teeth bad-temperedly. Tatyanna glared over her shoulder at her mother, and turned to Anastasia at her side. 

"Someday I think I'd genuinely like to fix that fossilized old witch." 

Anastasia nodded in agreement. "I'll drink to that. All she ever does is boss us around! I'm sick to the teeth of it all, by Hellgates I am!" 

Tatyanna put on a mocking face, which sent her little sister into frenetic giggles. "Ohh, I shall avenge those horrible wolves! All wolves are evil! La de dah de dah, la de dah de dah! Pfah! We burned half the wolves in Tundralake out of house and home, and then we killed everyone else!" 

"That was quite a sight, all those bodies dropping into the ocean over the cliffs like that," Anastasia reminisced nostalgically. "I should have that commissioned as a painting once Mother sets up a palace." 

Tatyanna stared at her incredulously. "You don't seriously believe she'll ever settle down, do you? Demons will drive her to destroy all the wolves in the world before she ever conquers some measly stone building and rests! Honestly, I thought you were smarter than that, sister." She tapped the side of her head with a perfectly-shaped claw. "That's why I've got a plan. You won't catch me tramping around in this mess for the rest of my days. Ever hear tell within the army of Rydahl the Hunter?" 

Anastasia looked sideways at her older sibling. "What are you getting at?" 

Tatyanna grinned. "Something Mother will never know about. Not for eternity!" 

* * * 

The monstrous wolverine sat crouched upon a tree stump at the edge of camp, listening to Tatyanna's plea for understanding. He eyed them suspiciously. 

"How's it that I'm not knowin' if'n yer mother sent ye here t'test mah loyalty?" he questioned, his strange, sing-song accent betraying his descent. 

Rydahl had been aptly named by his parents. In his native, ice-bound homeland of Graschtentukg, he was famed throughout the land as a mercenary, spy, and most of all, hunter of large, strong, and/or cunning beasts. He boasted of presenting the slain polar bear's skin to Shang upon his joining of her band, long back before anybeast could validly say they remembered. That polar bear had been an Angliaterryn lord, he bragged: Iofur Olfafsson. He had killed him in an invasion on the land, and while the wolverines had been beaten back, that part was "a well-kept secret." 

Not well enough, however. "I know the truth about that skin you gave my mother, Rydahl," Tatyanna pried, leaning close to the barbarically-clad fighter. "You found that old, mothy carcass in an ice floe, washed up on a shore in Banglinthurst. There never even has been an Iofur Olfafsson as an Angliaterryn lord! Lucky for you my mother was ignorant of that. I congratulate you on that." Rydahl gripped the handle of his strange-looking weapon tightly, bleeding his paws on the chunks of marble hewn into the wooden handle of the semi-club, just below the gruesome blade. 

The crafty Arctic fox, miserably small in comparison to the hulking wolverine, continued obliviously. "Now, I have no doubts about your fighting skills--in fact, they were highly recommended by many of my informants. I want you to help me find a way to kill my mother. It doesn't have to be now. It doesn't even have to be until we crush Tori Rubyhaer and her little rebellion, when we can make a good excuse for cutting her down in a confusing fray. But I know your brains, Rydahl. And if you were smart, you'd do as I asked you before I tell Maida Openmouth about your little, um, shall we say..." She looked up at him innocently. "Now what should we call it? Taxidermy?" 

Without warning, Rydahl thundered to his feet and swung his curious weapon into the ground before the vixen, barely missing her feet, which she impulsively drew back just in time, the swift, natural reflexes of a fox her only savior. Anastasia jumped in her seat, but she was amazed to see Tatyanna's suddenly composed face calm, barely moving a muscle. Rydahl narrowed his dark eyes. 

"Ahright, fox, ye've got me pinned. But I want a fair reward fer this act. My reputation's enough for the moment, but killing Shang Widowmaker deserves loot, and power. Much power." Shrewdly, Tatyanna leaned her head over to his ears and whispered something coyly. He began to chuckle, and rubbed his blunt paws together briefly, nodding. She'd said just one word: "Half." 

Pertly, she arose and bid him good day, nodding for her little sister to come with her. "You see," she explained as they meandered back to the tents, "a silver tongue can buy you anything. Harpie gave me my bane and my blessing: that's the boon. Shang's the other, and she'll be gone within two moons, you just see if she's not!" 

* * * 

Dyfed was in a foul mood. He swung at the underbrush with a walking stick he'd chanced upon, muttering obscure curses. Caerleon turned around on him. 

"Hey, stoppit, yeh fool! Yer leavin' a path clear as day fer anybeast followin' uz!" 

"Who'd be followin' us?" Dyfed shot back. " 'Tis the dead center of nowhere! There's not a livin' beastie fer miles an' leagues around! We're even carryin' bloody torches, in th'middle o'night! There can't be naught here. How I ever allowed myself to get talked inter this, I'll never know!" 

"It's because ye can't refuse th'Rampek when 'e asks you somethin', brother," Dysart reminded him quietly. "Don't worry, we'll make it back in time for th'big fight, if that's what you're after." 

Dyfed snorted. "Fates'n'seasons, this is dull!" 

Bocton, walking beside him, was squinting at something. "I think that might just end right about now, Dyffie. D'you see that? Don't look real conspicuous, try not to let it know we know it's there." 

Out of the side of his eyes, Dyfed skeptically glanced into the woods. A pair of eyes were shining through the trees. He drew his breath in quickly. " 'Tis a weasel." 

Bocton nodded slowly. "Aye, so it is. Awright, let's go up front, very slowly, and talk t'Sheryl. She ought t'know 'bout this." The pair gradually sped up their pace until they passed the others and reached Sheryl, conversing pleasantly with Kelso. They watched the weasel eyes following them through the forest: he was still there. 

"Sheryl, I think you must know--" Bocton began. 

A heavy crash to the right alerted the whole group. " 'Tis a weasel, miss, followin' uz!" Dyfed cried. "We've got t'get 'im, afore he notifies 'is cronies!" 

Sheryl lifted her torch up high, shouting, "Okay, some of you come with me! Help me chase him down!" 

The weasel was quite clumsy: his choking gasps from exertion reached the fleet Aiyarians' ears plainly. They began shouting commands to each other in Gaelic, belying his location with every yell. 

"There, there, in there 'e is!" Rivenna called urgently, and chased him into a small enclave. Sheryl rushed up, and handed her a torch for a better look. The Gaels who'd accompanied them in the chase leaned forward for a better glance of their prowler. 

The weasel was curled up in a corner, his head tucked underneath his arms, trembling violently and holding out a pendant on a necklace in shaking claws. It was a sphere of blue stone, attached to a sturdy leather cord. The wolves followed Sheryl curiously: their stalker was completely unarmed and was babbling hysterically, "Cele veltryn, cele veltryn, cele veltryn, cele veltryn!!" 

Rivenna gasped behind her, and Sheryl turned around to see the six Gaels talking to each other urgently. "What is all this?" she asked, slightly angrily. 

Samhain spoke up. "A cele veltryn, miss, a friend. We mustn't harm 'im." 

The mouse's brow furrowed. "Him, a friend? What are you on about?" She turned back to the frightened weasel. "Who are you? What's a cele veltryn and what's your name?" 

"O'Rielle, miss," he sobbed in a strangled squeak, still shaking. "Though me parents named me Gatorshank." He slowly slid to his feet, stammering his explanation while still pressed hard against the slick cave walls, avoiding Sheryl's torch. "Y-y'see, what these good wolves're talkin' 'bout i-is-is-is, there's a village of us who ain't b-bad. Not mean-tempered, you unnerstan'. So when we wouldn't become no s-searat or corsair or nothin' an' such, they gave us one o'these," here he held out the pendant again, "an' told us t'find Cele Veltryn. Nobeast else knows quite where it is, so it's one heck of a journey. A lot don't make it." He pointed to Kelso, who happened to be nearest, and laughed nervously. " 'Tis one of the Gaels' own names, m-means 'good vermin'." 

"He speaks th'truth, Sheryl," Bocton put in on O'Rielle's behalf. "He ain't leadin' uz astray. Weasel here ain't got a mean bone in 'is body." 

A patter of rain and paws behind them drew curious glances. Caerleon stood in the rain, with the three who'd stayed behind. He gestured to the weather. 

"I was just gonna suggest we find some shelter. Is this where we'll stay tonight?" 

Samhain looked over her shoulder, and replied, "Nah, I think we've got another place, a better 'un by far. O'Rielle, would it be deemed permissible fer uz t'stay with thee for a day or so?" 

The weasel nodded ardently. "Yes'm, ma'am! Foltren'll be glad t'have civilized creatures with us! Foller me!" With a beckon of his claws, he slipped past them and cleverly led them through the jungle. 

* * * 

O'Rielle was a much better tracker when he wasn't so terrified, and within no time, the group arrived in a tiny hamlet of a village. The houses were few but well-built. The road looked something like a tiny racetrack, with a ring line with houses on the outside, and a small cabin-like affair in the center. This was what O'Rielle led them into. 

It was slightly disturbing, just a little chilling to see the stoat and the pine marten drinking together, trading jokes and stories just like the mice back at Redwall or the Gaels during campdown. They too wore the spherical blue pendants. When they noticed the bedraggled weasel standing proudly to the side, giving Sheryl and her wolves first priority to the sanctuary, the pair jumped to their feet and bowed, smiling. 

"Hey, O'Rielle, what'd you pick up in th'woods today? My goodness, welcome, friends! Sit down, please!" the pine marten greeted. "I'm Sablesen, and this is our mayor, Foltren." 

Sheryl felt awkward curtsying. Foltren leaned forward, his sinewy body somehow not as menacing as the other vermin Sheryl had met in her short lifetime. 

"What's on your mind, hon? Strange, are we?" 

Sheryl felt her tongue get the better of her, and she blurted out, "It's very strange, sir, not having you as an enemy! I mean, here I am, having a civil conversation with-with, a stoat! It's very strange, if you'll pardon me saying." She immediately clapped her paws to her mouth in shock. 

Foltren laughed, and momentarily held an injured look on his almost kindly face. "Ermine, madame, I beg you please, ermine!" 

Sablesen came back from the storerooms, balancing a tray of drinks. "Here, settle down. Some ale'll be of help to yeh. You must be soaked stiff! The weather can get quite unpredictable this time of year, I'm afraid." 

The wolves, famous for hatred of enemies, surprisingly enough were totally at ease with Foltren, Sablesen, and O'Rielle. Sheryl felt something tugging at her conscience to trust these vermin, but it was against all of her common sense. She watched as Rivenna relayed their story. The stoat sat nodding understandingly. 

"The otters at Corbridge could get 'em to Mohaercrest quick enough, couldn't they?" Sablesen put forward. 

Foltren's head was resting in his claws. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, thinking. "Probably, probably. But then there's the question of poor Bryn Mawr." 

"Bryn Mawr?" Samhain repeated the strange name. 

Foltren nodded. "Yes. Her husband was killed by roving coyotes about a moon ago. She's been mourning constantly, and the sight of one of us wouldn't be taken too kindly, even though she knows us for who we are." 

O'Rielle piped up, "But ain't she further on down the Dartmouth, past Corbridge?" 

"Well, yes, but some of us are bound to accompany Sheryl, and then Rivenna and her people to go fight with Tori Rubyhaer." Foltren looked up at Owen. "I've heard of this Shang Widowmaker. They're starting to call her 'the Coldhearted' around here. I wouldn't doubt it. One of hers just joined us. If you want a word with 'er, she's pretty near death, unfortunately. If y'want any information, I'd go quick." 

"I'll take care of it," Samhain said quietly, and slipped out. 

* * * 

Samhain instinctively felt her lip curl in disdain as she crept into the makeshift hospital room. A fox lay gasping underneath the crisp white sheets: a ferret was trying to doctor to her what he could, but both he and the southern, red fox standing next to the cot holding the injured vixen's paw knew she wasn't too far from Dark Forest Gates. The Arctic fox's eyes were rolling wildly--staring, terrified--around the room. 

"Ribsy! Ribsy!" she shrieked when she saw Samhain. "Ribsy, ye've come t'take me away, have ye?" 

"I'm not Ribsy, ma'am," Samhain replied evenly, edging towards the distraught hordebeast. The vixen cringed away. 

"Ye'll not take me with you! I won't go! If Shang sees me with you, I'm crowmeat fer sure!" 

The ferret leaned close. "This isn't Ribsy, Malheart. It's Marcey. He's killed Shang: she's gone now. You can go with him," he assured her. Samhain smiled a bit. 

"Yeah, I'm Marcey, Malheart. How're things farin' at th'camp?" 

The vixen coughed, and her eyes began to flicker. "Ohhh, we've been movin' north again, Marcey. Shang's off t'kill more wolves. Insane creature! When'll she figger it out?" She sighed. "So she's dead, eh? One of th'daughters, I'll bet. Treacherous liddle toads, both of 'em. I 'member my pore ole mother tellin' me 'bout them as babies. First thing Tatyanna did was pull'n wings off'n butterflies." Malheart looked up into Samhain's face. " 'Tis good t'be seein' you once again." 

Samhain leaned close. "Rest easy, matey. We've got a while t'go afore we're free." 

Malheart leaned back against the pillow, soaked with her feverish sweat. "I'll see you in th'mornin'...." The vixen grew quiet, and it was soon apparent that morning for her would be spent in other places. The ferret drew back from the body, laying the tattooed arm the fox had held next to her. He wiped the back of a paw against his forehead wearily. 

"A pity, we tried t'save 'er, but there wasn't much hope once she started ranting on and on about deadbeasts she was seein' before her." The red fox slumped into his seat, staring at Malheart's still corpse. 

"I've never seen a dead person before, Gandreth. Do they always look like they're sleeping?" 

Gandreth, the ferret, half-nodded. "When they die in bed, yes. You'd have to ask some of the Immigrants about those from a battlefield, though. I was born here." 

Samhain sat down on another chair and propped an elbow on her leg. "So, tell me about what the vixen was saying b'fore I came in. I'd like to know what's happening with Shang's horde." 

"Why is it you want to know?" the fox asked suspiciously. 

"Larkspur! You're acting like a vermin!" Gandreth rebuffed with a stern glance. 

"Oh, it's quite alright," Samhain shrugged. "I just want t'know what some friends of mine are up against, if they'll meet soon or what." 

"What friends?" 

"Tori Rubyhaer and her clan." 

"You're with Tori Rubyhaer?!" the fox, Larkspur interrupted, gleaming. 

"Aye," Samhain replied, "she's a good friend o' mine." 

"Wow!" Larkspur yipped. "Tori Rubyhaer! I've been hearing a lot about her!" 

Samhain grinned at the youngster's enthusiasm, and leaned forward. "Well, d'you want to hear more?"   



	10. IX

Corbann's arm shot across Hexlor's chest. The entire small column halted smartly. Corbann's dark nose was in the air, sniffing something suspiciously. He twisted around and looked at the others. "D'yew smell thayt?" 

Reamer, a common soldier who'd been lured by Corbann's promises of glory and heat squinted, and sniffed too. "Yeh, Ah do. Smills lahk a ded summat t'me." 

"No ded critter smills lahk thayt," Baktus disagreed. " 'Tis lahk a brith frum uh tomb!" Others were beginning to wrinkle their noses. 

Lindisfarne came up from the back. He caught a whiff of the oppressive odor, and began waving a paw in front of his nose. "Hooooooo-weee! Thayt's sumthin'! Whut's up there, Corb'n, a rottin' whale?" 

Corbann pushed Reamer forward. "Go look an' see whut's up there!" he snarled disgustedly. Reluctantly, Reamer limped forward, not daring to glare back over his shoulder. He was soon back, the scent clinging to him like he'd rolled in it. 

" 'Tis a beast so horrible Ah cain't describe et!" he declared. "Also, et's so decayed there ent much left t'identify." 

"Hell's teeth, Reamer, that godawful smill's hangin' on yeh like a vix'n!" Corbann cursed, holding his nose. "Y'all go an' wash et off somewhere. Ah thanks we's near th'Dartmouth Riv'r. Wi'll set up a caymp heyuh fer naow." 

* * * 

Reamer was dripping wet when he came back, but at least the odor had dissipated somewhat. He was quite excited by something. "Hey, Corb'n! Yeh won't 'ave t'set up caymp here, nor ennymore! There's a big ole buildin' within sight o'here! Lemme show yer: looks lahk sum sort o' castle er summat, only part-built!" 

Corbann's eyes lit up greedily. "This is whut we bin waitin' fer! C'mon, boys, le's go see 'bout thas 'un!" 

* * * 

Tori's eyes narrowed in despair as she watched Branwen fearlessly confronting the huge--_thing _standing before them. The short little wolf was baring her teeth menacingly, frantic with anger, and nearly jumping up and down. The monstrosity standing in the middle of the road stared down his thick muzzle curiously at her. He was calm and confident, shouldering his equally enormous, double-headed battleaxe with no apparent effort. Tori leaned over to Aelfwald, whispering nervously, 

"What _is _that, Rampek?" 

Aelfwald struggled helplessly. "Brave little mite, that Branwen. I haven't th'slightest idea, child. 'Tisn't native, that's fer sure." He shifted positions, ready to bolt towards the creature at a second's notice. 

"Oh yes?" Branwen's voice carried angrily through the woods. "And just what were you battling with your big scary battleaxe up north? Mice? Hares? Ptarmigans?" 

"Nay, missie. I'm on my way home after combatin' them wolv--" 

"Wolves! I knew it!" Branwen leapt at the alien animal. Suddenly, he roared a battlecry that literally shook the leaves on the trees. 

"DAAAAANELAAAAAAAAAAAAND!" 

_"Jun fler af naddag!" _Ossian shrieked involuntarily. "Stop it, Branwen, stop!" 

Liam and Paul grappled the smokey-gray wolf to the ground as she struggled wildly against them, screeching, "Lemme go! I'll flay that dirty, rot-nosed--!!" Liam thought quickly, grabbing a branch and shoving it in her mouth to silence her. Branwen's eyes rolled wildly, still in a rage. Tori nimbly stepped out from behind John and Tamga. 

"A Northdog, you say?" she repeated curiously. "What's your name, friend?" 

The Northdog, a towering, tan-colored giant of a canine, readjusted his curious helmet, shaking his head. "What a fiery one, her! Wouldn't care t'go 'gainst her in battle, no sir!" He seemed to hear Tori's question in a delayed reaction, and turned towards her. "Mah name? Sarthe Brindlefur Magnusson, simply called Sarthe the Danehearted by mah en'mies!" 

"Danehearted? Fates'n'seasons, I don't believe you have many enemies left alive to call you that!" Taiga exclaimed in awe. 

Sarthe nodded proudly. "Not after mah last escapade. I was tryin' t'explain t'yon blazin' soul o'er there that Ah'd been decimatin' th'scourges of th'tundra with some friends o' mine. Wolverines, lads! Never did you see such slobberin' eedjits! Dreadful fearsome they c'n be to the ordinary eye. But us Danes don't 'ave no fear o' nothing, we do! Fightin's an ideal paradise fer us, and 'tis great glory to die in battle!" 

"Will you join us for some more fighting, then, Sarthe?" Tori asked, smiling. "A minor diversion for a warrior like you, I'm sure. By next moon we'll have met Shang Widowmaker in Leedsdown." 

"Shang Widowmaker?" Sarthe snarled loathsomely. "Shang Widowmaker?! Ah'm with ye in an instant! A more wretched villain ain't never slithered across our fair North!" He began swinging the axe in anger: wolves leapt away from the whirring metal. "Onwards to the sea, men!" he roared ferociously, "Sarthe the Danehearted is comin' t'get you!" 

* * * 

Brother Neil sat puzzling over the second of Tryffen's scrolls from Salamandastron. Pounding his head and grinding his teeth in frustration, he poured over the translated text furiously, trying to discover a meaning in it. 

The gatehouse soon became dark, and when Leith and Skipper made their rounds around the wall, he was refurbished with a hearty supply of candles, wicks, and oil lamps. Bare patches were beginning to emerge on the knuckles of his paws from writing too hard. What did the dratted poem mean?! 

"Eclipsed in the north, but the sun shines southerly.   
Despair not in your morning, listen to me:   
One day, you too, Brother Neil, will grow old.   
Paws all a-tremble: writing makes them fold.   
A fire burns in a hospital bed.   
You will give to him your assumed stead.   
Like a snowdrop he will bloom,   
Ushering in the past like a groom.   
I warn you of his curse, he does forever endure   
Knowing what lies behind that last closed door.   
Tolerate his frailty, 'tis no fault of poor boy's own.   
When he leaves you, this abbey will have grown." 

Leith scratched his head. "Wow, that's a thinker, Brother. I don't even think there _is _head or tail in this'n." 

Skipper took the heavily scrawled-on paper from his companion. "There's a couple sickbeasts in the Infirmary right now, I think, though what this has t'do with you an' any of 'em is beyond me." He nudged Leith. "Ye could go an' check. T'would be a prime excuse t'see pretty liddle Merril an' Fiona, all trapped alone up there with Sister Joan!" Leith blushed, and lightly shoved Skipper, trying to look the other way. 

The mouse retrieved the translation from the senior otter. "I wonder if slumber will aid in my deciphering of this foul thing. What can it mean?!" He yawned, his eyes beginning to glaze over. "Blasted...Antisle..." 

Skipper glanced at Leith, an expression of confusion printed upon his features. "What in shrimps' name did he jus' say?" 

"He's gonna sleep on it, Skip," Leith replied with a small smile. "An' if he were smart atall, he'd go ask my mum fer help in th'mornin' when he wakens up. She's a genius at these infernal perplexities." Skipper gave Leith a look of despair. 

"What did you just say?!" Leith laughed, and slapped Skipper heartily on the back. 

"I said we'd best continue onwards 'round th'wall agin, 'cause dusty ol' Brother Neil's gone fast asleep!" 

* * * 

"Oops a daisy! Watch it there, George, don't push yerself." 

Neil drowsily lifted his head off the desk. Glancing out the window, he saw Waterback and Tryffen supporting the Leedsdown wolf on their shoulders. He was gripping a hastily-made cane with fierce determination. 

"Y'don't 'ave t'be walkin' be'ind me like I'll topple at a breeze! I'll be fine, trust me!" he protested. The hare was pessimistic, and chided him in exaggeration. 

"Georgey, boy, I've never eard a bigger whoppin' fib in me whole born days! Tsk tsk tut tut an' all that ballyhoo. I'm surprised that the Infirmary keepers let you out!" 

George was grinning evilly. "I didn't let 'em alone the whole while I been able t'talk! They were glad t'get rid o' me, they were!" 

Neil waddled out of the gatehouse, rubbing his eyes. The trio turned at the opening of the door. George smiled, and waved, full of good cheer. 

"Hi, Brother! Nice sunshiney day, eh?" He overbalanced, and was barely caught by Waterback. She patted him on the back gingerly. 

"Listen, why don't you two go an' sit somewhere an' argue. I've got some bizness t'attend to." 

Tryffen drew himself up grandly. "With pleasure, madame! C'mon, y'old Flantyr, you. Let me tell you about what pretty really is!" 

George clutched his paws over nicked ears. "Y'won't start jabberin' on 'bout yer precious liddle haremaid Moonpebble or whatever again, are you?" he groaned in high agony. "Drat you, Waterback! Come back 'ere an' save me!" 

Waterback approached Neil with a slightly shaken look on her face. "I been listenin' t'George tell me 'is life story. He was an accidental birth, and he worked in a paper mill since he was a mere pup! The place 'e lived in weren't no bigger'n one of the closets in the abbey, and he 'ad a fam'ly of eight fit in there." She shook her head in shock and amazement. "Hell's teeth, Brother, I never knew Leedsdown could be like that! It was our city of gold, you know?" 

"He seems happy enough here, though," Neil remarked, nodding. "I daresay, he's better off here in Redwall than up north any day!" 

"Yeah, like th'sun's fin'ly shinin' down on 'im fer once, eh, Brother?" The mouse stopped dead. He turned slowly. 

"Say that again, Waterback?" 

The otter repeated her observation. "Well, 'is life was so stinky in Leedsdown, 'tis like he ain't overshadowed enny more--" 

"That's it! The answer to the second scroll!" Neil shrieked. "George is the key! George is the key!" 

The wolf's ears pricked up at the mention of his name. "Hmm, what? Tryffen, what's 'e shoutin' my name for?" 

The hare also turned his head to look at the brother, holding a surprised Waterback by her paws and dancing in circles around her joyfully. "Y'want me t'slap 'im upside the 'ead for yeh, Georgey?" 

George chuckled, wobbling his cane with a lightly-bandaged paw. "Naahh, just tell 'im if 'e don't shut it pronto, he's forfeitin' 'is meals fer a week's t'me, which'll go to you." Tryffen's face lit up. 

"Oh, can I? Are you serious!? You're me very best pal, George, a real chap you are!" 

The wolf nudged his companion. "Listen, mate, I'm as 'ungry as you are. Let's go t'the kitchens, there's somethin' I wanna see if these Redwallers 'ave." 

* * * 

Friaress Elena was a bit surprised to see George as he tottled into the abbey kitchens, but she immediately set about to berating Tryffen for no good reason other than to keep up their playful love-hate relationship. 

"Tryffen Alneday, I'm shocked at you, taking advantage of poor George just for an excuse t'see your friends in the oven!" she chided, lifting a pan from one of the oven interiors. The hare grinned, and waggled a paw in one of his ears. 

"Y'caught me, Friaress! I've gotta get me 'ead checked: Georgey-porgey here told me 'e wanted t'see fellows. I heard bellows an' I thought of you!" 

Elena slapped one of his long ears lightly. "Well, there's plenty of room for defects in those great things! Here, have a strawberry tart, it's an ugly. Careful, it's hot." 

George held a wry half-grin to his face as he watched his friend bounce the hot, misshapen pastry between his paws, talking the entire time. "Yowch! Hot liddle bugger, this'n! Oh yes, I think I might go deaf one o' these days! As one of my great ancestors is credited with gettin' a carrot stuck in 'is lug, it is entirely possible th'flaw actually made its way to perfect little me!" With a neat flip, he tossed the tart into the air. He closed his eyes, expecting to be soon eating the treat. Instead, his teeth clamped down on nothing, and he was left with a ringing sensation in his mouth. He opened his eyes to see George contentedly chewing, making pleased little noises the whole time. 

"Mm-mm! Oh, Elena, perfection! I can't wait t'ave more o' these later!" He winked at the amazed Tryffen. "Y'learn t'be quick in a fam'ly of eight." 

The hare and the mouse were both agape. Elena began to laugh, and clapped. "George, I think you're probably the first person to _ever _successfully steal food from a hare! Here, Tryffen," she chortled, handing the stunned hare another tart, "you can eat this one! Be sure yon wolf doesn't catch that 'un too!" When her guffaws subsided, she wiped the corners of her eyes with her apron, and turned to the odd pair. "So, what is it that y'want, buckoes?" 

* * * 

Redwallers and woodlanders had been randomly milling around Cavern Hole for about half an hour. Now they filed into the great dining hall and sat down, awaiting the evening meal. Abbot Daniel, seated at the head of the huge table, leaned to his right and whispered to George, "D'you think they'll like it?" 

George nodded, clacking his cane against the floor. "Yeah, I think they will. It's a staple with th'tomato sauce during th'summer in Tundralake, and in th'winter they'll take it with cheese or milk sauce. It's pretty versatile, Father." 

Daniel arose, clearing his throat mildly. The hall silenced, and turned their heads towards him expectantly. "Tonight, along with the usual choices, we are now offering a type of cuisine which our friend George Flantyr just introduced to us. I hope you find it just as tasty as I did this afternoon. It's called--um--it's called--" He turned to the wolf. "What's it called again, George?" 

"Spaghetti, Father," he replied. "And you can eat it with just about anythin'." 

Daniel nodded. "Spaghetti, yes. Well, it's coming around now. Enjoy your meal." The spaghetti was a rousing success, especially with Dibbuns, who delighted in not only eating it: it proved a plaything of great fun too. 

* * * 

Gandreth brushed aside the foliage, murmuring to himself, "Not long now. Shouldn't be far ahead..." 

The Gaels, Sheryl, and a few of them cele veltryns who had decided to accompany them to battle the Widowmaker were, in single file, marching wearily through the thick growth of the hardwood forest known as Dale. Wiping sweat from her brow, Sheryl asked Foltren, "So what exactly is this place you're taking us to?" 

"It's a mill, to give it its full name," the stoat replied. "Corbridge Mill, and I'll bet you an apple to an acorn you've never seen so many otters in one place at a time." 

Only about six or seven cele veltryns had chosen to go and fight, but they were all prominent in their community. Foltren, the mayor, Sablesen, Gandreth the village doctor, they all came: so did the youthful Larkspur and his friend O'Rielle. It was now that one of them smiled and pointed up ahead. 

"There it is! Corbridge, straight ahead!" 

What greeted Sheryl and her Gaels could only be described as fantastic. 

The summer sun glinted off the water in the lazily flowing Dartmouth River. All around it, strange apparatus for drawing the water away from its source to other parts of the mill in irregularly angled wooden sluices. The mill itself was beautifully picturesque: a large, whitewashed stone building, it was in the very center of the surrounding village. Otters were everywhere: they seemed to be overflowing from the stone huts that they lived in. They skillfully raced around and ducked the suspended sluices, attending to their individual chores cheerfully, calling out jokes and insults to each other as they passed. One took the time to stop for a drink. Upon looking up, she beamed, and yelled over her shoulder, "Hey! Someone get Percy, cele veltryns with guests!" 

The crowd was ushered into a small wooden hall, where Sheryl and Rivenna found a brawny male otter looking over some blueprints for a bridge. "Persimmon, you great fat guppy!" Foltren called good-naturedly. The otter looked up, and grinned. 

"Foltren, y'oddball mean-eared flounder! How's things at th'village?" 

The peculiar duo thumped each other on the backs heartily, and bantered back and forth with old, longstanding jokes. Finally, the otter put away the blueprints and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Leisurely, he leaned into a chair, gesturing for Foltren and his friends to do the same. "Sooo, friend, what is it I c'n do for yeh?" he asked finally. 

"We needs some o'you t'ferry us up to the abbey at the end of the river, at the Cliffs," the stoat said simply. Percy bit his lip in thought. 

"That might be a bit of a problem, there. There's been reports of real nasty vermin in the area--coyotes, rogues from this fox Shang Widowmaker's band. Then, as y'might know, poor ole Gosa Felf was killed not half a moon ago..." 

Foltren nodded his head understandingly. "Yes, I heard about that. I was afraid to offer condolences to Bryn myself. I'm the last type o'beast she wants t'see now, I'm sure." 

"That's something else I'm worried about," Percy agreed. "We have to go through Bryn to get to Mohaercrest, and she has to know exactly who's going through her turf." 

"Bryn?" Caerleon repeated curiously. "Hmm, Bryn....Mawr?" he asked himself, pondering the strange familiarity of the name. 

"Excuse me, sir, but...wouldn't B..Br..._she _know Foltren and all the others?" Sheryl put forward, what she thought was reasonably. "And anyway, they're wearing their blue necklaces. Those're pretty hard to miss." Percy seemed to see her for the first time, and leaned towards the young mouse. 

"Lemme ask you somethin', miss," he said. "Imagine that the most important creature in your whole world, that special someone you'd spent most of your seasons alone with, in solitude, hermitage--and then imagine that through some screechy coyote's bad temper, he was slain in a skirmish. Then, one o'them cele veltryns comes through, an' one o' th'foxes --say young Larkspur over there-- looks an awful lot like th'one who killed your loved one. You wouldn't exactly treat 'im like cherries an' cream: ye'd prob'ly rush at 'em with the nearest available weapon at first instinct! So this is our problem, ma'am. Bryn Mawr is the key to gettin' to th'cliffs, an' if she don't let you through, y'gotta take a huge detour around her territory, and then travel all the way along the coastline. And, as I understand it, you're in a bit of a hurry." 

"Oh," Sheryl whispered. She slumped back down into her chair slightly, and listened to the Gaels offer ideas. 

"Is there any way we could coax her with somethin', per'aps? I mean, if say we Gaels come out first when she asks t'see ev'ryone, and talk to 'er about it?" Samhain narrowed her eyes. "What is Bryn Mawr, anyway? Now I'm imaginin' her as some sort of waterhog--" 

Percy's face was so surprised that anyone could not have heard of the river matriarch he seemed about to burst into laughter. "No no no, lady, y'got it all wrong! She's a wolf, just like your good self, an' a prettier filly for her age I ain't never seen! Present company excepted, of course," he added tactfully. 

Rivenna put her paws akimbo indignantly and arched her neck. "Oh, so we're that old, are we?" The circle laughed, and they moved on. 

* * * 

Tall Dysart ducked from the branches of the trees he was named for. "Awfully thick, these, eh?" he tried joking with a stolid-faced otter controlling the rudder on the stout ferryboat. She looked at him blankly. 

"Yer too tall: what y'need here is a brick on yer head." 

Dysart nodded. "Yeah, I've 'ad many a beast tell me that--will be int'restin' when I marry some short, sweet, bonny liddle lass--whoa!" The smooth, languid flow of the river was interrupted by a dull _thud. _Dysart, who'd been sitting on the side of the boat, was pitched overboard. Moments later, he felt himself being pulled out of the water by a strong, confident paw. 

"Those trees're a killer in your position, lad," a female voice said, a hint of an amused smile on her lips. "Best keep amidship in my woods." 

Dysart looked up awkwardly, and scrambled to his feet. "Many thanks, _tainefe--_riverlady." 

"Y'okay down there, Dysart?" Percy yelled from the deck. 

"Y-yeah, I'm fine," he replied. "She pull--" He began to turn around, ready to point over his shoulder as his rescuer, but she had vanished. Confused, the Gael glanced around for the sight of her, but at the sound of her voice further away, he ceased. Looking to its source, he was met by a stately she-wolf, wielding a walking stick, standing on the banks, talking to the otters. Rubbing his head, he stumbled over the pebbles and caught up with the boat. The new-comer was narrowing her eyes. 

"Cele veltryns, ye say? You sure? They've come with you all the way?" 

Percy nodded fervently. "They've no connections with Gosa's bunch, I assure you, Bryn." 

"You're Bryn Mawr?" Dysart interrupted. 

"Bryn Mawr? Bryn Mawr!" Caerleon yelped triumphantly. "That's it!" 

The wolf looked about her. "What's your fuss about, lad? Is there somethin' on my face?" 

Caerleon leapt over the railing and landed expertly on his feet. With a swift, single movement, he knelt before the she-wolf and murmured, _"Onwn nef tan ferdia, Gnodefengrefa."_

Bryn Mawr stood silently before him, staring at him with a wistful pain Sheryl had never seen in a creature's eyes. 

"Tourmaline," she remembered softly. "I haven't been called that in long seasons. Long, long seasons..." 

"What's all this, shipmates?" an otter asked, confusion in her voice. "What's goin' on down there that I should know about?" 

"Ever hear tell of Tourmaline and Peppertand?" Caerleon asked, still facing Bryn respectfully. "She was all set t'rule the Alsatian peoples, far to th'north in Aiyar. But he came along and swept 'er off her feet. He won 'er hand in marriage after single-pawedly fightin' 'gainst a strange cat, and winning." 

"That was my Gosa," Bryn whispered, paws shaking. "And yes, he slew the tiger Aftrad in battle. That was what convinced my father to let me go with him. He knew Gosa could take care of me as well as I could." She paused to wipe away a solitary tear, and then squinted at Dysart, shaking her head. "You look so much like him, you know. It's very uncanny. Like the son I never had." She smiled sadly. 

Samhain and Rivenna stood open-mouthed, in awe. "You're the Tourmaline that we grew up hearin' about?" Rivenna managed to gape. "Princess Tourmaline of Negalsace?" 

"Ohhh, I'm just Bryn Mawr now," she replied softly. "Princess Tourmaline was a very different girl." She seemed to shake herself, and the vulnerable widow they'd witnessed a moment ago vanished. "You'll have to wait to pass through my lands, lads," she stated flatly. She looked piercingly at Sheryl. "I'll need some time to pack my things. I've a feeling we'll meet my trouble somewhere along the way." 

* * * 

Corbann gazed at the distant cliffside abbey in a morning ritual, full of greed. At the horizon, the sun shone down upon the peaceful scene like a content nursemaid. He sat lazily on a large rock, half-watching his nimblest coyotes repair the rope bridge spanning the monstrous waterfall over the cliffs. The pack had followed the river to its end: now they found themselves confronted with the Elgin Drop, the highest waterfall in the whole continent. Its thundering roar echoed around the strange open land at the edge of the Eastern Cliffs, a harbinger of the area's majesty and importance. 

"Whawch it theyuh, Reamuh, that's a long way t'fall," he called to his underman. The coyote smiled, raised a claw to signal he was okay, and clumsily continued tying the intricate sailor's knots to the posts. Corbann again looked to the abbey, the view hazy in the mist from the Drop. Who knew what untold riches lay within these great stone houses? He sniggered confidently. He also knew another thing: the building was only partially finished. The Abbey lacked one wall. How hard would it be to take an incomplete abbey, full of peaceful mice? 

"Stawp et, men, stawp et!" he yelled. The constructors immediately ceased their work and looked at their leader. Corbann leapt easily off the rock and walked into the midst of them. "Would yeh say th'bridge is finished, Hexlor?" he questioned, examining the hastily built rope and plank bridge they'd been constructing for four days straight now. 

The overseer looked over his shoulder, wiping his sweaty forehead. "Ah'd thank so, Corb'n. She's fairly steddy naow. Ah'd say we cud git o'er et presently." 

"We's movin' owt!" Corbann ordered, glee in his charcoal face. "Git yaw thangs tugethuh! We'll be living lahk kangs by moonfall!"   



	11. X

"Right, now this is essential, young Creusa," Percy prompted the young otter controlling the steering handle. "I want you t'ease yer way over to the left bank....good, that's it....Now y'see that liddle inlet yonder? When I say go, you shoot up in there. Got me?" 

The pretty Creusa nodded, already concentrating hard on the wheel. "I'm on it, skip. Ready when you are." 

Persimmon held up a stocky arm, bobbing it in a count. "Awright, one... two... three.... NOW, CREUSA, NOW!" he bellowed. She wrenched the wheel sharply to the left, straining to keep it steady. The boat rocked and jolted heavily. The wolves clung to the deck, trying not to unleash their sickness. Bryn Mawr and Kelso, however, were at the helm, a brilliant, adventuresome expression on their faces. 

"Steady her now, young 'un, steady!" Bryn roared. "We're come out've th'fall's rip spate!" With a rebounding shudder, the boat suddenly seemed to come to a standstill. Bocton lifted his head up cautiously. 

"What happened?" he asked, still queasy from the rough current they'd been experiencing the nearer to the Drop they'd come. 

"We're in a canal," Sheryl explained excitedly, "built so that boats could travel as close to Mohaercrest as they could without going of the edge of the cliffs. I left during the inception ceremony. And look how close it is! I can see home! I can see it!" 

"Well, this is what you came for," Osric said doubtfully. "Better we go and see if it's hollow or whatnot." The boarding plank was lowered onto the shore, and the party gratefully staggered onto still ground. The ferryotters were looking to Persimmon with questions and directions plainly written. He read them well, and addressed the wolves. 

"Do you need us from here on out? 'Cause if there's no defendin' t'be done, we'll be on our way back to Corbridge an' Cele Veltryn shortly." 

Sheryl chose her words carefully. "We thank you very much for you generosity, Percy. But we have no ideas as to what lies behind the walls of the abbey. There may be some sort of siege or attack on it, or something may have happened to one of the members of the community. Any who wish to come and see and find out are much more than welcome: guests always are at Mohaercrest. I will probably be staying on here at home: whatever happens to our friends the Gaels is determinate only by them." Percy nodded, thinking it over. 

"An' what is it you wolves're gonna be doin' after all this?" 

"Any one of us can tell ye in a heartbeat, sir!" Craig answered fiercely. "We're headin' west to Leedsdown, to avenge the greatest misdeed ever done in the land! Anyone with a love for justice and a brave heart is more than needed for th'task!" 

"Well then, if that's your mission, any o' my ferrybeasts is free to go with yeh," Percy announced. "Those who don't'll help me round up fighters for yeh. When is it you'll be facin' off th'Widowmaker?" 

"At the full moon," Rivenna breathed, suddenly aware of how close the battle would be. "At the next full moon, we duel. And those left alive will have a great story of love and fire to tell their grandchildren." 

Percy bowed his head solemnly. "So be it." 

* * * 

Shang strode sourly to the front of her silently assembled army. "We have some allies to make, Winterchildren! We must crush these petty rebels as totally as possible!" she shrieked. "Do you remember the far east lands of our old home in the north, my children? Tell me, what is there?" 

"Graschtentukg, Widowmaker!" a captain at the head obediently replied, a bit shakily. Shang simpered, and glowed. 

"Yes, and in Graschtentukg live monsters no Leedsdowner could have ever imagined in nightmares caused by us!" Poe's face drained as she questioned her leader. 

"Surely you don't mean--the Ezrennes, m'lady?" Shang threw up her paws ornately, like a soap-box preacher. 

"Imagine it! Wolverines against the wolves! They'll be puny compared to those beasts, and their slaughtered blood will be like ice melting in the spring!" Her bright green eyes lit up at the prospect. "Imagine it, troops, imagine it!" Her army obeyed, and shuddered at the thought: for it was a well-known, proven fact that wolverines ate their slain enemies. 

* * * 

At first glance, the thin veils that Tatyanna and Anastasia held over their faces were simply decorative, but the simple truth was that Odo Serrabin stank. The leader of the local clan of wolverines in the area sat slouched over the table, his hulking back hideously humped and deformed. His menacing teeth overlapped his lips, jutting out in slimy yellowed knives. His small black eyes scanned over Shang's proposal: he made harsh snuffling noises as he read it. 

"Smmmm, as much ploonder as we want, mmmmmmmsnch! killin' a-plenty--what sizable rebel army be this? Hmmmmmmscnawch! An' a reward for heads: Tori Rubyhaer -- what kind of fear does a name like that inspire? -- especially. Huhhhh, the one who brings back her pelt gets a third of the reapin's." He lifted up his misshapen head and looked at the two dainty vixen. "Pretty damsels yoo are," he drooled hungrily. "You included in the loot?" 

"Sir," Tatyanna replied curtly, "we are messengers, and the daughters of the cruelest warlady in the north. We have destroyed cities, massacred thousands, and killed all that lie in our path. One more remark like that from you, and we will not hesitate to add you to our ever-growing list." 

Odo glared sulkily at her, muttering wistful curses. "Svein!" he roared, slobber flying around the tent. Another wolverine hustled forward. "Put mah mark on this," he ordered roughly, shoving him close. "Tell our people our famine is soon to end!" 

Anastasia smiled evilly. "Your people will grow tired of all the meat you will soon have, Odo. You have chosen well." The attendant Svein stamped a roughly-hewn seal of a wolverine's silhouette on the treaty. He took the time to grin at the two foxes, and lick his lips. The famine, if indeed it would be as these bargainers had promised, would be ending very quickly. 

* * * 

Tori's troops were quickly developing a following. Word had spread throughout the northlands quickly. All over, those who lived in the riverside hamlets, the steppe farmhouses, and towns found arms and sought out the legendary Rubyhaer. The twenty or so wolves and Redwallers they'd left the abbey far to the south with had increased twofold by the time they were midway through the taiga between Loch Imnal and the Forest of Dale. They were eager to mingle with all the great warriors of the day, flocking to have roadside conversations with Aelfwald of Aiyar, Sarthe the Danehearted, and Michael and Llawder of famed Redwall. Strangely enough, not many recognized Tori. She learned from the newcomers who would walk alongside her that they had heard she wore a sword nine lengths long and an ornate set of gold-plated armor. She was a head and a half taller than even Sarthe, and she sang to her enemies while she sliced them to pieces. She chuckled at the bloodthirsty legends that two sisters, Marared and Perennial Fiortin, were telling her, asking where to find the great fighting princess. 

"I haven't seen anyone even remotely fitting that description," Marared was saying gloomily, struggling just a little under both her pike and her bow and quiver of arrows. "My friend Siwan told me she was a red brighter than a sunset, and had eyes as green as emeralds in a summer glade." 

"Really? An emerald in a summer glade?" Tori repeated. "Hmm, I haven't heard that one before." 

"Siwan is bit of an exaggerator, though," Perennial reminded her sister. "She also told us that Shang Widowmaker has wolverines in her army now, serving as mercenaries." Tori stiffened a bit, for she had heard that too: from Raven, her chief scout. She disregarded that, however, and asked another question. 

"How is it you know so much about Rubyhaer?" 

"Oh, our friend Siwan knows this other wolf, Boxer, who's gotten t'be friends with Tori's sweetheart John O'Lennain. He told him all that over a campfire." Tori suddenly burst out laughing. Perennial looked at Marared. 

"What did you say do get that?" 

Through her laughs, Tori managed to say, "Oh, it's just that John _would _say that to new recruits. He's that kind of creature, you see. Heeheeheehee! Ohhh, that's a scream! Hahahaa!" She took a breath to try and banish the chortles while she wanted to speak. "You see, Tori's never even been in battle. She's quite small, actually: a midget next to those great huge Gaels. She hasn't used a weapon in nine seasons' time, and she thinks armor is a waste of good metal!" 

"And how do you know all this?" Perennial questioned, paws akimbo. 

Tori chuckled. "Ohh, let's just say I know her very well. 'Scuse me: I have a few words to say to my sweetheart." She slipped away, yelling in comical rage, "JOHHN!" Perennial blanched, and turned to her sister. 

"You know who that was? Marared, _that _was Tori!" 

Marared gasped, and put a paw to her agape mouth. "Oh my gosh! Fates 'n' seasons, I hope we haven't offended her!" Then, after a chagrined pause, she added fearfully, "I hope no one tells anyone!" 

* * * 

John looked over his shoulder at the short red figure pushing her way through the ranks, shouting his name. "Uh-oh, here comes trouble," he playfully muttered to a newfound fellow smartmouth, Boxer. 

"John! I can't believe you!" Tori called, slapping his arms with a rag she'd found beside the road. 

"Ahhh! Oww! Mercy, mercy, Tori, I didn't mean it!" he howled in mock pain. The Rubyhaer continued with her imaginary flaying, and berated him mercilessly. 

"Taller than Sarthe, eh? I sing to my enemies while I chop 'em up with my nine-lengths long sword?! What is it I sing, Johnny boy, something by you to put 'em in more agony?" 

"Ooooo," Boxer grinned, "that was heartless!!" 

"That," Paul said, keeping his voice low as he watched Tori chase John through the gaps in the army, "is why I don't want a woman of my own!" He grinned, and elbowed the young Boxer knowingly. "I wouldn't be surprised if John here finds 'imself a married househusband when this is all over! Somebody's gotta be good at takin' orders in a marriage, and it certainly won't be her!" 

"Oh, certainly, of course not." Boxer jibed, winking. "She's a princess!" 

Suddenly, another figure was pushing roughly through the crowds, panting, calling "Tori! Tori! Lass! There's an army up ahead, directly in front of us! They're marchin' due west: we'll hit 'em any minute!" It was Raven: she was panicky, but somehow managed to keep her voice steady. The entire column suddenly tensed: Tori stopped her escapade immediately and turned to her messenger. 

"Is it Shang?" 

Raven nodded. "Just a forward party, but it's sizable!" Tori was immediately in control: she turned to Gowran, panting, 

"Call a signal to arms: skirmish likely at any given moment." The large-lunged wolf nodded, eyes wide, and thundered, 

_"Veltryn gafted rar nantepta! _Enemy army straight ahead! Man yourselves! Arm yourselves! A battle is coming! _Toyda!" _A clanking sound rippled through the army as the steel of the fighters ousted themselves: the sun glared off the weapons as the new legions set themselves grimly for their first encounter with the enemy. 

* * * 

Corbann cursed as he saw more creatures running towards the assaulters. "Hell's teeth, don't Morpeth an' 'is folks know whin Ah told 'em t'attack a wall? Damned imbeciles, cain't they foller a simple order?!" He leaned down in the ditch next to Reamer, who looked quite the worse for wear. His skin was beginning to sag, and his eyes were bleary and crusted. He shivered constantly, and couldn't keep his meager ration of food down. Corbann disregarded his condition and kicked him cruelly. "Garn! Git o'er to Morpeth an' tell 'im t'grow some brains! Shang might've thawt 'ee 'ad sumthin', but whate'er she saw ain't there no more!" 

Reamer pitifully crawled from under Corbann's harassing footpaws. "Please, boss, no more," he pleaded weakly, trying to snake his way away. Corbann snarled, and ran off, deciding that if one wanted something done right, they've gotta do it themselves. 

Corbann and his renegades had begun bombarding the half-finished walls since before dawn yesterday. The surprised abbey mice had been slow in retaliation: the coyotes had already succeeded in breaching a wall, but had then had to contend with fierce otters and a huge badger. There they were falling, but not quickly. Corbann had lost about three fighters on the wall, but he urged them to continue. 

Now Morpeth, a superb officer in Shang's army, was bungling! The coyote had been ordered to go around to the side and get in through the unfinished wall. He was running toward his leader, however, followed by about nine others. Corbann frowned: he didn't remember sending that many with Morpeth.... 

"There he is!" the lead figure yelled. _"Aaaaiiiiyaaaarrrr!!! _Get 'im, mates!" 

Enemies! Where had they come from?!?! Corbann turned tail and fled for cover, little knowing that he had some of the swiftest wolves of the Gaelic peoples on his feet. He leapt into the ditch he'd been in just a moment before, tripping over Reamer. He was about to give the clod a taste of his sword, but the coyote was dead, and swelling quickly, bleeding from his eyes, ears and nose. Baahhh, he hadn't time to worry about him. Corbann found Hexlor, another officer, standing behind him. 

"Help me faht these wackos, frind Hexlor," he ordered, drawing his scimitar. 

Hexlor nodded, drawing an arrow to his bow. "Raht, Corb'n. Ah'm awn et." Corbann patted him gratefully on the shoulder. 

"Ah knew Ah cud trust yew. Hold hard, bruthuh." He crept away to amass and rally his few fellow malcontents. 

Hexlor was about to fire his weapon when an blue-feathered arrow shot into his paw, pinning it to the clay wall behind him. It was soon followed with a well-aimed dagger to the other, which left him crucified in the ditch. Shocked at the sudden turn of events, he could only gape to the top of the trench to see the perpetrator. 

Osric stumbled into view, pressing his deadened paw against the spot on his belly where Hexlor's own arrow had misfired into. The Leedsdown prisoner coughed momentarily, and then turned to look at his captive. "So, Hexlor, we meet again," he smiled grimly. He switched paws on his wound, and held out his dead hand, dripping his own blood. "Remember this? And remember my home?" He sat down slowly, groaning and holding his stomach gingerly. Then he sighed, and looked at Hexlor. "We used to have a saying in Leedsdown, that justice follows on the heels of every wrongdoer, and once he pauses to look at his crimes and gloat, she strikes." Osric smiled, and Hexlor's face drained in horror as the wolf picked up a stray piece of glass from the shattered windows of the abbey, made so by the coyotes' ballista. "Well, justice just happens to be male today. It's nice to finally be meeting you!" 

* * * 

The coyotes were soon routed as the experienced Gaels set about to rounding them up and slaying the would-be highwaymen. Corbann watched from the shadows in the trench, quivering. His plan had gone desperately wrong. His troops had been decimated, his plans and great dreams wiped out. He glanced tentatively down at his feet. The bodies of mangled Hexlor, bloated Reamer, and a wolf lay by silently, staring into bare space. An idea began to form as he morbidly stared at Reamer's distended corpse. Telling himself that he'd be taking a thorough bath when he escape, he lifted up Reamer gingerly in his arms. Creeping towards the ballista at the top of the ditch, he carefully lay the carcass in the expellant. He looked around fearfully: good; no one around to see him cut the rope to toss the body. He slunk up the wall of the trench. 

* * * 

Rivenna was trying to administer to Bryn. The fearless vindicator had plunged into the small battle with her all, taking down most of the coyotes. But the bravery had taken its toll, and now Sheryl, Rivenna, Dysart, and Gandreth were gathered around her as she deliriously began to speak. 

She gazed tenderly at Dysart, who was crying shamelessly as he held her paw. "Bryn, hold on, please," he pleaded. "Breathe, honey, breathe..." 

"Shh, shh..." she hushed, and stroked his face. "Well, I sure will be missin' thee, lad, an' I'll be waitin' for ye to join me sometime. But don't you hurry: take y'time an' live. Eternity is a long while, and we'll only be waitin' shortly..." She sighed, a content smile on her battered features. "Concentrate on livin', and don't ever give up or let down y'guard." Weakly, she raised a paw and pointed behind them. "Like there. Look, lads, look." 

Corbann was awkwardly sprawled over the ballista, furiously trying to sever the rope to release it. With lightening reflexes, Rivenna suddenly whipped out a knife and hurled it at the small catapult. 

Her aim was true: the hemp was snapped instantaneously. With a shocked expression on his black face, Corbann was hurtled through the air, clutching Reamer's body. He hung in midair for a brief second, and then fell, landing with a dull _thwack _on the abbey ramparts, and sliding onto the battlement walls. 

Bryn nodded approvingly. "Nice..sho....tt....." She smiled, and slipped away. 

* * * 

The little tundra village of Blacksod sheltered them for the night, treating their wounds and helping with burial of the few dead. Tori sat on the edge of a bed, shaking with fury. 

"Thirteen dead. _Thirteen. _We lost Marared, Grensade, Ronin, Nora--" 

"Tori, stop tormentin' yerself," Paul advised gently. "We'll make Shang pay dearly for them, and when Rivenna gets back, she'll as likely give those foxes such hell they'll sing about it for centuries after this." 

Tori hung her head, not listening. Nora had been so brave at the end. Tori had never seen such an intense fighter as a hare in all her born days. With her wild war cry of "Eulaliaaaaaaaaaa!!", the flamboyant showgirl had been cast off, and a hard-eyed pike hare had emerged. By golly she'd taken a few with her! Through tears, Tori managed a shade of a smile, recalling Nora's last triumphant whoop. It had drifted over all the other sounds of fighting, carrying through the air like a great bell. 

"Eulaliaaaaa!!!! Tell Antisle I did 'im proud, Chester! C'mon, you rotters, come to me! Snapdragons're king's o'th'skyyyy!!!!!!" 

Rivenna's tall father had been the last one to die. Sustaining irrecoverable wounds, he lifted himself up from the place where he'd fallen and charged into the last of the foxes, wielding his huge sword and howling terrifyingly. He'd butchered the final remnants of the group, calling aloud the names of every friend he'd ever known slain by the cruel white foxes. When things became hopeless, he continued on bravely to the end, shouting his wife's name and telling her not to despair. "Ossian!" was the last word to leave his lips before being drowned in a deluge of fox carcasses. 

We will not forget you, friends, Tori promised, squeezing out a tear. We will never forget. 

* * * 

_"Mena," _Rivenna said quietly to Bocton. "Some Northdogs up ahead." 

"Veltryn Diatrybe?" Bocton asked, squinting at the muscular creatures flickering in between the firelight at the camp up ahead. 

Rivenna nodded. "Samoyeds, Huskies, maybe. Or Spitzen, it's hard t'tell." 

"Let's approach them, FeGnodfia," Owen suggested. 

Rivenna took a breath, and strode forward. 

The rollicking Huskies, fiercely blue-eyed and proud of their steel, silenced themselves when they saw the small spearheaders venturing towards them. Bristling with animosity, they let the strangers come within twenty feet of them before a huge male howled madly and leapt in front of them, barring the way between the two parties. 

"Who be thee?" he questioned with a slight snarl. "We don't welcome foreigners on our land without good reason." 

Rivenna spread her paws diplomatically. "An' a good reason we give thee, friend. We journey on our way t'join Tori Rubyhaer fight foxes, a common enemy." 

The Husky regarded her suspiciously. "Tori Rubyhaer I've heard of, but vaguely. Who be you, then? Your name I should know?" 

A harsh tundra breeze whipped across the steppe. The wolf endured it bravely, a determined glint in her eye. "Rivenna Dyfedfinne, a Gael from Aiyar and proud t'fight ye t'prove it!" 

The Northdog chuckled. "Fight me for et, will yeh? Any true Farnorder knows our weapons are withstood by nothin'." 

"Aye, so they are, dog," the purple-black wolf challenged, "and everybeast in all th'Northlands knows that we Gaels never walk away from a livin' enemy." 

The members of Veltryn Diatrybe Hus waited voicelessly behind their leader as he and the strange, dark-colored outsider face off with glares. Rivenna and the Northdog stood stonily, staring at each other with the confidence of true warriors. 

"If yer not for us you're agin us," Rivenna growled, lowering her head, "so either let us pass through and go an' join yer mistress the vixen Shang, or give your restless fighters a chance t'flex their muscles." 

The Northdog straightened, and offered a thick paw. "Then flexin' we'll be, for there's been too much unsettled peace 'ere since Leedsdown were destroyed!" he vowed. "Aberyn Whitehall, Krydag o' th'Hus people." 

Rivenna thrust out her paw to meet his. "Then 'tis good t'know thy name, friend Aberyn, for I'll be callin' it in thanks when the ground by th'sea is littered with foxes!" 

* * * 

The rolling hills just below the foxes' Badlands appeared to ripple gently as the grass meekly followed the wind. Tori's bright red fur stood out plainly against the low, ponderous gray clouds: not for nothing was she called Rubyhaer. 

The land looked desolate and empty. The only souls the Tyne princess saw where the five score followers behind her, from Tundralake, Aiyar, and Redwall. To her left, John squinted his eyes and shielded them with a paw, watching a few wolves approach from the distance. 

"I see someone. Looks t'be Aelfwald's niece." Tori nodded, keeping her eyes on the shapes moving closer and closer. 

The four figures surmounted the barren hills between the two parties, and finally made contact. Rivenna smiled and dipped her head slightly in a greeting. 

"Tis good t'see yer battered face again, Rubyhaer." 

"Aye," Tori replied, noting the absence of the six others. "Much better to see you again, though, Blackbirdberry." She motioned toward Owen, Samhain, and Bocton standing quietly to the side. "Are these the only ones who made it back?" 

The big Gael shook her head, "We had to leave poor Osric and Craig at the Abbey, but they're both alive an' recoverin' well from what I hear," she lied. 

"What about the others, though? Where are they?" 

Rivenna giggled. "Aw, coom now, Tori. Surely y'di'n't think I'd coom through an area and not raise ye a soldjer or two here an' there." The purple-black wolf turned to the hills behind her and waved a paw, yelling cheerfully, "Show yersel's, lads!" 

Tori's jaw literally dropped in shock. In an instant, the hills were teeming with wolves, Northdogs, otters, hares, and even ---could it be?! --vermin-- weasels, stoats, ferrets, pine marten... Colorful banners were hoisted into the air, and glitter of many pikes, swords, javelins, arrows, and other weapons was like a sunburst. Rivenna nodded slowly, commenting lightly, 

"A fair number. Tho' if'n we'da gotten all th'Gaels of Aiyar ye'd have a movin' city there. But a modest nine hundred or so more able an' willin' creatures, ready t'help yer crusade." 

The princess was truly lost for words. She compensated with a fierce hug. The Gael, at least a head taller than Tori, smiled modestly. "Aw, thank 'ee kindly, miss, but we can't stand here all day. Now you go take these eager beasts and avenge your poor fam'ly." 

* * * 

"You were not telling me things this afternoon. Not in front of our fighters. What happened, Rivenna?" 

The Gael had known that Tori would ask that question for a long time, and had spent time preparing her answer. 

"Well, Sheryl stayed behind at Mohaercrest. After a battle with some rogue coyotes, a plague came upon the creatures. Luckily, it was a common affliction in the south, where Sheryl was. She cured the abbey without a death from disease in it. She told me she might go back to Redwall some day to learn more from Sister Joan, but the abbeybeasts constantly marvel at her healing skills, so I believe that she knows not just how much she was taught at Redwall." 

"And what of Osric and Craig? They were not with you." 

"Osric and Craig were killed in the battle." 

"I see," Tori said sadly. "A shame." 

Rivenna bobbed her head in agreement. After a pause, she broke the silence with, "We're supposed t'be 'avin' a great party tonight, aren't we? For morale, is it?" 

"Yes," Tori nodded. "It's in an old holidayer's lodge on Imnal's eastern shore. Why?" Rivenna spoke, her eyes cast to the floor. 

"There's somethin' I need t'finish." 

* * * 

The lodge was well concealed, and much of the sound coming from within was safely muffled. Inside, the atmosphere was wild. The keys of the old upright piano inside would soon become hot with constant playing. Right now, Tori was drawing hoots, whistles, and cheers as she felt a bit of her Leedsdown night escapades at the nightclubs in Abergavenny District with her naughty composition "Leather," which the Gaels would tease her about for days to come. 

"Look, I'm standing naked before you, don't you want more than my sex?   
I can scream as loud as your last one, but I can't claim innocence. 

Oh, God, could it be the weather? Oh, God, why am I here?   
If, love, isn't forever, and it's not the weather, hand me my leather...! 

I could just pretend that you love me, the night would lose all sense of fear.   
But why do I need you to love me, when you can't hold what I hold here? 

Oh, God, could it be the weather? Oh, God, why am I here?   
If, love, isn't forever, and it's not the weather, hand me my leather!" 

She delved into a heavy piano solo, from which she emerged grinning, and she sang sultrily on. 

"I almost ran over an angel, he had a, nice big fat cigar.   
'In a sense,' he said 'you're a alone here, so if you jump, you'd best jump far....' 

Oh, God, could it be the weather? Oh, God, why am I here?   
If, love, isn't forever, and it's not the weather, hand me my leather!   
Ya dai dai, ya dai dai, da de da, h-yai-laaiii......." 

Soon she shouted for quiet, hushing the rowdy crowds before her. "I think you guys are getting a little too ribald. This is a really special occasion: you need some depressing." Eagerly, her audience leaned forward as Tori revealed her reclusive piano goddess personality. In the shadows behind her, Dyfed cut through the darkness with a plaintive violin. Tori's voice crackled around the lodge as they soberly listened to her ballad. 

"In my platforms, I hit the floor. Fell face down, and didn't help my brain out.   
Then the baby came before I found, the magic how, to keep her happy.   
I never was the fantasy, of what you want-wanted me, to beee....... 

Don't judge me so harsh, little girl. So you got a playboy mommy....   
But when you tell 'em my name, you want across that bridge all on your own.   
Little girl, they'll do you no harm because they know, your playboy mommy.   
But when you tell 'em my name: from here to Birmingham, I got a few friends. 

"I never was there, was there when it counts. Forget my way, you're so like me.   
You seemed ashamed, ashamed that I was, a good friends of the Gaelic soldier.   
I'll say it loud, here by your grave: those angels can't ever take my place...

Don't judge me so harsh, little girl. You got a playboy mommy.   
But when you tell them my name, now,   
You want across that bridge all on your own. Little girl, they'll do you no harm   
Because they know, your playboy mommy.   
But you just tell 'em my name. You tell 'em my name: I got a few friends....." 

She was storytelling now: everyone in the room felt their throats lump, for they knew this scenario all too well. Tori had her eyes closed as she played on: suddenly, like a sob, she sang, 

"Somewhere, where the orchids grow, I can't find those church bells,   
That played when you died, played, 'Gloria.' Talkin' 'bout Hosannah......

Don't judge me so harsh, little girl. You got a playboy mommy, come home!   
But when you tell them soldiers my name, and cross that bridge   
All on your own, little girl, they'll do you no harm 'cause they know,   
Your playboy mommyyyyy....   
But, I'll be home, I'll be home,   
to take you, in my, arrrrrrrmmmss......." 

The hush following the tale was broken by another piano chord. Tori was at her instrument, John perched on a stool in the background with a guitar, while Rivenna stood tall and straight center stage. The Gaels straightened with seriousness: this was the formal apology and rectification for her temporary exile. The song was taken very gravely: Aelfwald and Adia listened closely as the purple-black wolf began to sing with aching bittersweetness, 

"Adia, I do believe I've failed you. Adia, I know I've let you down.   
Don't you know I tried so hard, to love you in my waayyyy....   
It's easy, let it gooooo................ 

Adia, I've missed you since you left me, tryin' to find a way to carry on.   
I searched myself and everyone, to see where we went wrong.   
There's no one left to finger, there's no one here to blame.   
There's no one left to talk to, honey, an' there ain't no one to buy our innocence, 

'Cause we are born, innocent.   
Believe me, Adia, we are still, innocent.   
It's easy, we are faltered. Does it matter? 

Adia, I thought that we could make it. I know I can't change the way you feel.   
I leave you with my misery, a friend that won't betray.   
To pull you from your tower, to take away the pain.   
I'd show you all the beauty you possess, if you'd only let yourself believe, 

That we are born, innocent.   
Believe me Adia, we are still, innocent.   
It's easy, we are faltered. Does it matter?" 

In the silence that came after her illumination, Adia arose and bowed. 

"Thank you, Rivenna. You are welcome here again, and you have most definately proved yourself." The Gael smiled through her tears, and asked chokingly, 

"Gnodfe, how about a song from yerself? No voice 'o mine could ever compare t'yours." Adia grinned at the offer. 

"It's been fair seasons since I've done that! All right, lass, prepare for a lesson!" Encouraging cheers arose for their cheiftan's co-ruler, and Adia arose. She waited for silence after discussing something quickly with Tori. She cleared her throat: the air was instantly still. 

"Jacob's heart bent with fear, like a bow with death for its arrow.   
In vain, he searched for the final truth, to set his soul free of doubt.   
Over the mountains he walked, with his head bent searching for reasons.   
Then he called out to the skies, for help, and climbed to the top of a hill. 

Wind swept the sunlight through the wheatfields.   
In the orchard, the nightingale saaaaaang,   
While the plums, that she broke with her brown beak,   
Tomorrow would turn into songs..... 

Then she flew up through the rain, with the sun silver-bright on her feathers.   
Jacob put back his frowns, and sighed, and walked back down the hill.   
'He doesn't answer me, and he never will.'" 

Sitting in the dusky backstage, John nudged Paul. "What about us, eh? We can't just them 'ave all th'fun. What'll y'say we hit 'em with?" 

Paul considered, his head tilted to one side. " 'Mr Kite,' I think. Or maybe 'Sgt. Pepper's' an' such. Or how about somethin' oldie but goldie?" 

"I've got it," John decided. " 'Please Mr. Postman.' 'Member that one?" 

Paul nodded slowly. "Yeah..." he agreed, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Alright, let's get Ringo an' Noel." 

The night wore on, giving way to the glow of dawn and early morning. Noel stood talking with Rivenna dazedly, absently holding a glass of early cider. 

"You were really beautiful back there," he told her. 

She half-smiled, and blushed, ever so slightly. "Thank you." 

Noel didn't move. "You know, I've missed yeh a lot. Y'know that?" 

Rivenna nodded sleepily. "Yes, yeah, I know......" She rubbed her eyes. "Your... your mother's name is Amberanne, right?" 

Noel replied, "Yeah." 

Rivenna shook her head in wonder, staring into space. "I couldn't find her when we went to Manchester." Noel leapt up. 

"You went to Manchester? How're things there? What did y'think?" 

"Y'want the honest truth?" she asked wryly. 

"I'll 'ave t'learn to accept it," he said quietly, producing a ring from a pocket, "if I'm askin' you t' marry me and _you _accept." 

The wolf was rendered totally speechlessly. Her chest rose up and down quickly, sucking in air in shocked breaths. "I-I-I..." she began. She looked into his solemn blue eyes, and nodded once, firmly. "I will." 

He kissed her on the cheek, his heart flying in joy. "We'll 'ave it done in Redwall proper-like when this is all over." 

Rivenna nodded, gazing at the tourmaline gem set in silver, and cried softly. "I know," she whispered, trembling.   



	12. XI

George stared. "You want _me _t'be your Recorder?" he repeated. 

"Well, I wasn't really given much of a choice on this, George," Neil explained, a bit apologetically. George looked away in incredulity. 

"I don't believe it!" he said, his shaky paw wobbling the cane. "I 'ave t'sit down!" But something told him it was something other than shock at the suddenness of the title pushed upon him. 

(You only feel like this when you're about to see something.) 

Yes, I know, George agreed, his eyes tearing at the ferocity of the nausea, but never this bad! 

(It is something important. Get away, Flantyr, get away!) 

"I 'ave t'get into th'shade," he pleaded weakly. "Help me into th'gate'ouse, will yeh, Brother?" 

When inside, he sank down into the wooden chair at the messy desk where most of the writing was done. His head nodded, and soon became light and surreal. He didn't realize it when Neil left, but he soon felt alone in a detached sort of way.... 

* * * 

The dream was much too vivid to be just that: a dream. George could feel the early morning seacoast air of home: he observed from behind a pillar as Tori watched the sun rise. 

(look closely 't'will be your last) 

Cursed name! he thought bitterly as the sky began to dye itself brilliant shades of peach. George's father had been a Gael: Flantyr was their word for "foresight," or "seer." 

The red wolf sat down on the bench of the piano she'd spent the early hours of the morning dragging from the cellars, undisturbed by the fires. George saw, through her perception, the dejected keyboard. Tori closed her eyes, shutting out the new day, and he witnessed what was painted by memories onto the backs of her eyelids. 

* * * 

_"Poppa's been worried about the Badlands."_

_"Oh really?" she replied casually, playing with an old beanbag._

_Peter turned to her gravely. "Haven't you noticed? They've been much too quiet. Creekben even thinks they've been abandoned." He shook his head. "Those foxes can't be up to anything good."_

_How Tori had loved Peter. He seemed so solemn to the casual observer, but all close to him respected his wry, subtle sense of humor. But at this moment, he was, indeed, completely serious._

_(Her body shook. How foolish she had been.)_

_"Well, then, guess I'd better go do a little spywork," she remarked flippantly. "I'm off to Esterlin's. They're high enough up I'm sure someone could spot a coming invasion." She smiled pleasantly and turned toward her coat, draped over a deeply polished wooden banister._

I know what you want. The magpies have come. 

_Peter suddenly grabbed her arm. "Tori," he pleaded, "be careful. I have a bad feeling about the city today. Please, don't wander too far." His oldest sister had a slightly puzzled looked on her face._

_"I'm only going along the cliffs, Honeydew, I'll come straight home," she reassured him, calling her tense brother the same pet name their mother did._

_He gave a small, concerned sigh, and let go. She beamed at him, and pecked him on his cheek. "Don't worry so much, you'll turn into a squid." Peter's face momentarily broke into a smile, and here she fleetingly escaped._

_She stood leaning against the balcony on the top floor of Esterlin's. the view from this favorite haunt was magnificent: it directly oversaw the royal gardens, where Tori could make out Leah practicing her archery under the direction of their grandfather, Cairnfael. Casting her gaze east, she overlooked the entire city of Leedsdown, the jewel of the Northlands. The chilly Arctic air made the view clear for miles, and she pulled the old coat closer to her shoulders as she watched the taiga stretch out and join the steppes to the tundra far in the distance. Behind her, the Welshentie Cliffs rose seven-hundred and fifty feet above the coal blue sea. As with many cliffside buildings, the restaurant seemed to precariously balance on the edge._

_A flapping of wings above her head startled her: none of the birds who resided this far north stayed for the harsh winters. But two black-backed birds, white-chested, with a white stripe across their wings, flapped overhead, complaining._

"Kree-AK! _When was it she wanted up signal to her daughters?"_

_"I think around midmorning, though why she wants those wolves I don't know. _Caawwwwk!" 

_Tori crouched low so the two magpies wouldn't notice her: obviously this was something important._

_"Maybe a nin-nee is something valuable to them. Though we know not of these fox things, do we?"_

If you know me so well, then, tell me which hand I use. 

_However the rest of the conversation followed, it became faintened by distance and wind. One pounding thought rose above the rest of the many the princess harbored: Tell Creekben, tell Creekben...._

_(Yes! Tell Creekben! George thought frantically. Ohh, Tori, please...)_

_Her breath returned to her all at once; she fought her wobbly legs to regain balance. Mind, for once, won over body, and in a panicked red streak she broke away from the banister, hurtled past her old friend Esterlin and nearly knocked her trays of hot chocolates onto them both as she flew down the endless steps, tripping herself and treading on paws._

_Creekben, Creekben....---where was he?!?!!_

_Dashing down the brick street, she dodged angered passers-by, desperately hoping she didn't have to believe the strange birds. She knew of the Widowmaker's jealousy of the wolves: jealous of how well and how happily they existed. Tori was sure the poorly-built hovels and shacks of the Badlands were probably miserable._

_(Ohhh but why burn better living quarters?!)_

_She finally arrived at a tower on the fringe of Leedsdown. It was a popular spot: the countryside for leagues around the city was visible. Most of the pleasure-goers often ignored the stretch of scarred, barren land south of the huge Loch Imnal, but today Tori scoured it._

_But how will I see them? she thought bitterly. 'Tis the dead of winter, and they're all white. In fact, what am I even doing here? She laughed at herself momentarily._

_What was the point of that panic? "Really, Tori," she told herself, "if you're going to be any kind of ruler, you'd better stop jumping at every snippet of vaguely threatening conversation!" She chuckled, and slowly made her way down yet another staircase._

_Her sudden lightheartedness must have been totally intoxicating, for she didn't hear the rough voices and coarse talk until she walked straight into their sources._

_Three weasels, headed by an evil-looking fox, stood at the foot of the stairs. They snickered among themselves; occasionally one of the weasels would cackle gleefully. When they found themselves the unwitting captors of Princess Tori Rubyhaer, the fox's face lit up with greed._

_"One o' th'brats! Shang'll make me a gen'ral fer this!" He held the shaking wolf in a vice-like grip. "Yore 'ide would look grand adornin' my tent, wolf! Wot d'yer think o'that?" She was too terrified to turn her head away from his foul breath._

_A hollow-eyed weasel sniggered and pulled out an ominous-looking knife. "Hey Ribsy, she ain't puttin' up much of a fight. Why don't yer just do d'job now?" He offered Ribsy the weapon as one of his companions cracked,_

_"Guess y'never learned 'ow t'fight back in princess school, eh? Too busy sippin' tea an' keepin' y'posture nice! Hawhaw!" The trio of weasels seemed to find this enormously funny. The fox, however, yanked the knife away and held it at the joker's throat._

_"An' I guess they never taught yer t'grow a brain an' take yer 'ead outen yer slops! Idjit! How'll Shang know et's really her if we jus' bring back a ski--AAOW!"_

_Tori didn't know how she forced herself to bite Ribsy's paw near clean off, but the rancid taste in her mouth and the ringing of teeth that have encountered bone sped her onward toward Tyne Palace. Once again, the single, obsessive thought dominated her mind: Creekben! Find Creekben! Tell Creekben!_

_* * *_

_The silver-brown otter strolled through the palace's iced-over gardens. He nodded approvingly as he watched his old friend Cairnfael pat his granddaughter Leah heartily on the back and shoulder her bow and half-empty quiver himself. His watchful eye followed them to the nearest door, and into a side room through through the gust of warm air from the inside._

_Creekben Sheercliffe was a formidable figure. He himself had lost count of the many seasons he'd seen, but his powerful body and ever-youthful manner belied the age he'd attained._

Make them go...mmm, make it go... 

_He heard his name and all of a sudden he found Colvin's eldest clinging to him. Leedsdown's future ruler was crying pitifully, like a cub who had just learned what death is._

_"Whoa, whoa, there missie! Wot's makin' yeh shed such tears?" he questioned gently._

_"Ohh, Creekben! Foxes! Foxes!" Tori then proceeded to tell the stately otter of her encounter of the magpies and the fox. Creekben was genuinely surprised by her account._

_"So Shang's plannin' full-scale invasion of the city, is it?"_

_Tori sniffled and composed herself a little. "It seems so."_

_The kindly otter shook his head. "Well, I ain't got no other choice but t'take you to yore parents. Though I think they'll just tell yeh th'same thing th'police an' scouts tole me: they've cleared out somewhere an' vanished journeyin' north."_

_* * *_

_Colvin Wolflord also shook his kingly gray head, his short beard stroked thoughtfully by a paw. "Tori, I'm sorry, but there isn't much more I can do than send out a few extra patrols to ward off this band of weasels who attacked you. It's just too unfounded: there's no evidence other than what you overheard and saw. I can't deploy the whole army against a foe who left the area three weeks ago."_

_"But Poppa--!" she protested with a small cry._

Saw them, restaurant, Poppy don't go. 

_Colvin held up a paw for silence. "Now I know what you say you heard at Esterlin's, but I can't accept it as fact." His face became very concerned. "You look terribly upset, though. And exhausted too. Why don't you go up to your room and rest a little? It seems to have been a hard day for you."_

_She allowed herself to be helped away by one of the guards, but could not part from her father without whimpering, "Oh, Poppa, but it's true..."_

_* * *_

_Tori welcomed her brief slumber, but nightmares stalked her. She remembered the hideous giant monster lazily stomping toward her as she, a cub once again, sat seated helplessly in a pool of clouded water. Sitting duck. Sitting--_

_"Father! You'll be sitting ducks!"_

_She, in a daze, half-opened her eyes._

_Her sister Paula's voice carried well, as it always did. "They can't be trusted! She'll have an ambush waiting for you! Are you crazy?! Or is it just too noble to acknowledge what will happen to you if you go?!!"_

_Tori jumped as she heard her father's paw crash down on a table._

_"Paula, I'll have no more of this! This fox gives me her word, I can only take it!"_

_"Colvin, listen to yourself, and listen to reason! You can't meet Shang alone!" Tori had never heard her mother Derynai's voice sound so harsh and angry. She arose from her bed and crept toward the top of the stairway._

_The Wolflord was buckling the belt attached to his leather scabbard. His wife and second youngest daughter were desperately grasping onto his arms, now pleading. They were totally oblivious to Creekben and the four otters trembling behind them._

_"Your mother, Cole! What about your mother?!" Derynai cried shrilly. "Surely she--"_

I know your mother, is a good one but Poppy, don't go. I'll take you home.... 

_"Snowangel could talk a hare out of eating. That's why she was queen for so long. But I promised this Shang myself," he said gently. "I cannot go back on my word, even if she can."_

_"A MISTAKE!"_

_Everyone turned at the fierce shriek from the top of the stairwell. Tori raced down to her father and grasped his powerful paw._

_"Poppa, be assured, if there are four guards for you, Shang will waste none and have fifty waiting to kill you!" she ranted. "Raise troops, flee, hide, do something, but I beg you, if you go to talk with that fox, you'll come back hand in hand with death!"_

_"Tori--" her mother began._

Show me the things I've been missin'. 

_"Send me instead! If you send me with lots of backup, we could get them before they get us! We--"_

_"Tori, you are thinking like a vermin," Colvin warned._

_"She's right, though," Paula said, eyes cast downward. "If we are up against vermin, we must think like them and treat them as such."_

_There was an awkward pause._

_"You've not handled a weapon for neigh on eight seasons or so, child. Supposing you were to go..."_

Show me the ways I forgot to be speakin'. 

_"I'm sure it would come back to me," she tried weakly._

_"How could we take that chance?" Colvin asked her. "Tori, I must go."_

_"NO!"_

Show me ways to get back to the garden. Show me the ways to get around, and get around it. Show me the ways to... 

_"Just a few minutes is all I need! Once you learn swordplay you never forget--"_

_"Enough!" Derynai cried._

Button up. 

_She turned coldly to her daughter. "You made a choice to pursue music, not war. Now leave that business to those who still know it."_

Buttons that have forgotten they're buttons...well, we can't have them forgetting that. 

_"You are to come with me. You too, Paula," the queen said stiffly. "We'll wait in the weaving room with Snowangel and Cairnfael. Where I can keep an eye on you two: I don't want you running off and doing something foolish." Unacknowledging of her childrens' worried and disappointed expressions, she turned to her husband. "You be careful," she told him briskly._

_Colvin chivalrously kissed her bejeweled paw. "I'll come back in one piece or I won't come back at all, my love." He quickly turned heel and exited, the otter guard following. Derynai took both her protesting children by the paw and led them away._

_* * *_

_Snowangel stroked her daughter-in-law's head as the sobbing Derynai confessed her fears regarding her son._

_"Angie, I'm so afraid! Colvin is such a brave soul he won't back down from anything, even when it would do him and his family better to run! Those foxes will do something to him, I can feel it!"_

_The pearly matriarch kept her voice soft and level. "Colvin will be just fine. He's never met an enemy he couldn't defeat, or, as you know, he wouldn't have just walked out that door."_

_Derynai shook her head worriedly, unable to speak through her distress. Paula and Tori sat by in a corner, watching them._

_"I wonder if we're the only ones who know," Tori remarked. "I mean, the townfolk, what about them?"_

_"There's no need to upset them over what may be nothing and cause a panic," Paula replied reasonably. "For all we know, the Widowmaker may just want better places to live."_

_Snowangel sniffed disdainfully. "Widowmaker, phah! She sounds like nothing to be afraid of from what I hear! Only reason she's head o'that rabble is cause 'er dad just got too long in th'seasons."_

_Tori said sadly,"That's what they want you to believe, Grandmother."_

_Cairnfael stood up. "I'm off. I'm not gonna sit here and do nothing. I'll check on the situation, see if my son is back yet. See you in a little while."_

_"Bye," Tori murmured quietly, and watched him depart._

_* * *_

_He returned an hour later. He was choking and out of breath. Falling against the door, he crashed into the room and landed heavily on the stone floor. All four wolves leapt up and rushed to his side._

_"Grandpa, what is it?!!" Paula cried._

_He looked at them blearily, mute. Pulling a bloodied paw away from an injured side, he reached it toward his shell-shocked wife._

_"H-heard it from...one of the otters," he gasped slowly. "Fox.....had more waiting. Colvin and Creekben--daughter got them...Funny, she looked like ---a ghost ,of Tori..." He inhaled sharply, quivering. His eyes were becoming worryingly rheumy. "There are....more of them now. In the city. They're burning and killing the citizens." He cast his gaze onto the four. "Stop them. Before they destroy us a...." His voice slightened to an inaudible whisper, and the steady beating of his heart loudly ceased. Snowangel was too stunned to react : Derynai let out a terrified wail. Tori, her green eyes wide with fear and surprise, looked at her remaining family._

Girls, girls, what have we done? What have we done, to ourselves, yes? 

_"Why were we so unprepared?" she whispered. Instead of falling to her knees and crying, she only became angry. Angry at the injustice of the slaying of her father and grandfather. Angry for Creekben, his otter guard, and the others being ransacked of their lives while she sat and did nothing. Wordlessly she stood up and rushed out the door. Her mother screamed her name, just once, pleading her to come back. But the red wolf had to warn her people. It seemed no one else was._

_* * *_

Driving on the vines, over clothes lines. But Officer, I saw the sign... 

_Tori crouched pitifully into a corner. She could hear the sounds of battle and of death in the city. She had tried. Oh she had tried....._

_The maze of the city had been nonexistent to her. She'd raced through the cobblestone streets, hoping to warn _someone, _but no one paid her any heed. More often than not she was laughed at. Finally, a large, brawny policeman ran her down and sternly told her to cease this disturbance of the peace. She tried protesting, tried explaining what she saw, tried even pushing her title upon him, but a seemingly crazy wolf would have of course claimed herself to be the heir to the throne up on Tyne Mount. The officer had roughly grabbed her forepaw and was beginning to heft her toward the nearest arrest station, but the resounding sound of a collapsing building nearby startled him. She wriggled free of his grip and, in an exhausted and muddle-headed panic, sped back to the palace,which still remained._

_She raised her head. The room had already been pillaged when she'd arrived. The barren walls were now only filled with the ruins of a collapsed, crippled piano. Like a newborn, she weakly crawled underneath it, and cowered in the soundboard as she tried to block out the noises of a life being destroyed._

George's head began to pound as the air around him turned thick and bloody: the chaotic crashes of piano chords and symphonies, orchestras, whole sections of strings rising in a discordant war march. Tori rushed from the burning castle, straight into the arms of Anastasia, being freshly congratulated as "my little arsonist" by her mother. No... ohh no...... they grappled her, held her down, laughing at her expression as she watched the palace become the inferno of the hell she felt. Anastasia---hefting her--no, never did like birds--no, no, no!--Paula cried her name, Leah too winded to talk--The two-irised white fox maliciously pushed Tori over the cliff edge. A flash of knife behind her next to Paula._ "Ha! Now the last of them is gone! Go join your family at Dark Forest Gates, weak one! You'll find none of their company here!!!" _...Falling down, falling down.... other white bodies falling around her like snow bled into...twisting, twisting; wind rushing, water roaring, the sizzle of burning wood hitting the water-- 

"Tori?" 

She turned around from her perch. A young Gael stood, shaking fearfully. He bowed his head slightly, trying to hide it. " 'Tis time, miss." 

Tori rose up. A fire burned in her eyes similar to that which had ravished the room in the late grips of winter. She nodded, and followed the wolf through the ruins of the castle, leaving George helplessly draped over his table, watching her with a sick feeling churning inside him like waves...   



	13. XII

Shang checked herself in the full body length mirror one last time. She wanted to look splendid for her final crush of the Leedsdown royal family. The gown she wore had been ransacked from Tyne Palace: it was Derynai Fioraja's wedding dress. She sniggered at the irony of it all, and clasped the final set of pearls around her neck. She then stepped out of the tent, to join her horde.

* * *

Tori laboriously climbed up the steep incline to a spot at the cliffside. John, Rivenna, Bocton, and Liam were standing in a circle, waiting for her. Before them, the entire collected army was amassed, standing silent, reverent in this ruin of ghosts. Bocton held his uillean pipes in solemn readiness, awaiting her word. She looked at him. "Are we ready?"

Liam nodded. "The army won't move a muscle unless y'say so. We've got an hour or so b'fore Shang's forces're due in the area. You're free."

Tori took a breath, and turned to face the creatures, all strangers, willing to fight and die for her and her cause and the wrong done to this place. "Friends," she began, her voice surprisingly strong for such a serious and trying occasion, "this glorious sunrise, for many, will be the last they every see. I am grateful, beyond words, for the sacrifice you are willing to make for the cause of justice. A great event is happening now, and being a part of what will surely be sung about for seasons to come will be a thing to speak of with pride to your great-grandchildren." She paused, shaking, unsure of what to say next.

"But first, there are also many who were never given the chance to see this sunrise. Remember them now with me. This is the Royal Funeral Hymn of the House of Llewllyn the Founder. This may be the last time it is ever played. Think of those innocents who were slaughtered, and may the memory of the injustice dealt to them by your opponents on this day give you strength, courage, and victory. I give you a final performance of 'Never An Absolution.' Thank you." She bowed, and backed away.

Bocton had never played so painfully beautifully. His pipes seemed to have life and breath of their own as they mourned in a heartwrenching aria. Rivenna's simple, additional vocals soared out to the very last rank, wordless melodies drawing tears to faces stolid and inwardly quaking. The wind blew through the silence after the lament, and the Vreeteerdan Dennes stood noiselessly, inert, afraid to shatter the spell. 

Tori wasn't, though. A strange light in her eye, she gazed over the tops of the fighters' heads, on the horizon.

"Your enemy approaches!" she called, trance-like. "Give them no less than they would you! I can see their white bodies blotting on the warm grass like unwelcome ice! We are here to act: let us free ourselves!" She lifted up her fist, and howled, _"Vreeeeeteeeeerdaaaaan!!!! _That means 'freebeasts'! That is your battle cry! Hold this dear whilsts you fight: flesh is surprisingly fragile, but spirits are unbreakable! Let voices ring through the streets once more." Her chest began heaving up in down, the light in her eyes growing more and more war-like. Like cresting thunder, she bellowed, _"Attaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!!!!" _

A wild, primeval roar began to slowly rumble throughout the rolling hills and shattered buildings. The warriors surged forwards, toward the foxes. Fate rushed out in front to meet them both. The battle was begun.

* * *

Tori raced through the stampeding warriors, trying to find John. He was towards the front of the action, fighting with Liam.

"John!" she yelled breathlessly. "John! John, wait!" She buffeted aside vermin, and made her way to the wolves. "John," she said when she reached him, "when this is all over, if we both still live, I want you to meet me at the cliffs, near the old court house. Please."

John dropped his hefty pike and exchanged his tight grip for her. "However this ends, we'll always be t'gether, love," he told her. She smiled up at him, tears beading her bright green eyes. Unexpectedly, though, he pushed her away. "Go now, Tori!" he yelled. "Find Shang! End this!" The Rubyhaer gulped, and nodded, darting off. 

Liam looked nervously at John after she'd left, his paws soaking the leather-bound hilt of his borrowed sword. " 'Ave you ever done this before, mate?"

John shook his head. "Nah. But as they say, there's a first time for ev'rythin', eh?" He squared his shoulders, in determination not to reveal the terror he was experiencing. "C'mon, Liam, give 'em a piece of Manchester to remember!"

Liam did his best to put on a fearsome face, and, yelling at the top of his lungs, he charged headlong into the foxes, John at his shoulder.

"So, Liam, what was it you said about your dad when we first met yeh?" his friend asked calmly, operating his pike with surprising ease. He watched the tiny, silent foxes fall without a sound at each swipe: it was quite unnerving. He felt Liam's muscles become terribly taut against his back, and the anger in his voice was apparent.

" 'E was th'director of th'Manchester Symphony. A vermin underneath: 'e'd beat me mam Amberanne when 'e came 'ome. He'd beat 'er with all kinds o' classical instr'ments: violin bows, flutes, drumsticks, batons. No reason at all. AHH! Gotcha, yeh bastard! He'd bribe me brother Allen to help out so's that 'e wouldn't get whipped. She eventually left 'im: no one in 'igh society could understand et. HAH! TAKE THAT, SNOWY! They all thought she was-was a..._harlot." _He spat the word angrily, and drove his sword into the crowd of foxes. _"THIS IS FER SIDNEY GALLAGHER, YEH SWINE!" _Liam roared, oblivious of the wounds that frantic hordebeasts were inflicting trying to fight off his sudden fury. He bulldozed his way into Shang Widowmaker's army, leaving John alone, who smiled, despite himself.

"Good idea, takin' out y'personal devils on useless beasts like these!" he remarked, and whirled around to face the fox who'd been sneaking up to him, who'd thought John was ignorant of his presence. "Merry Christmas," John said cheerfully, clenching the pike as the fox's pale face drained. 

* * *

Both armies knew that the battle had to be ending soon as scavenger birds began circling overhead like ominous omens. Only one side needed to interpret them as so, and it was obvious which one by the time the sun was near diving into the sea. 

The light was strange and the last fleeting sounds were being muffled. Shang's troops were fleeing in every which direction, only to be met with determined Farnorders at every possible escape. The screams of foxes were drowning, and triumphant cheers were replacing them as sections of ground were regained and rested upon.

Tori still had not found Shang. Like a possessed madbeast, she raced around the wide open space, screeching the fox's name like a Fury. Ringo and Noel ran into her at the westernmost outskirts of the field, not a league away from the loch. Tori's fur was gleaming with blood: she resembled some sort of terrifying valkyrie, hell-bent on claiming her revenge. The two other wolves had tried speaking some sort of logic and sense into her as they tried to chase her down, but to no avail. She steadily sprinted inwards to the center of the battlefield.

"I feel her!" she'd cry, leaping over carcasses like an athlete. "Her time and mine are near!"

"Ringo," Noel panted to Ringo beside him, "we've _got _t'do somethin' 'bout that madbeast up there. She'll kill 'erself just tryin' t'run and find th'blasted Widowmaker!"

"Aye, yer right, Noely," Ringo agreed, gasping for air, "but try an' tell her that!"

* * *

John felt someone ram into him from behind, at the shoulder, knocking the breath from him. Helplessly, he watched as several vermin encircled him. "He's one o'their ringleaders, ain't 'e, Poe?" one asked a ferret. She nodded.

"He sure is. Come on, Shang'll want to see this one." He refused to yelp in the pain he felt as the foxes dragged him away.

At some point later, he was roughly thrown to the ground at someone's feet. "Here's one o' the rebel leaders, Widowmaker," the ferret Poe reported, administering a kick to John as she said it. "John O'Lennain, one of Tori's favorites!" Blearily, John looked up to see who was talking.

Shang sat before him, seated on what used to be a wall. Her two daughters flanked her. Behind them, he could see Gandreth perched on the remains of a statue of Leedsdown's first rulers, Tyne Gwyllym and Gwen Llewllynadd. "A favorite of the Rubyhaer, eh?" she repeated, interest in her hard green eyes. She lightly jumped off the wall and leaned down to John. John was gasping harshly for breath, and felt very much the many wounds he suffered. She smiled condescendingly. "So, wolf, thought your little rebellion could crush me, who crushed you first?! Hah!" She snickered evilly. "You wolves never fail to make me laugh!"

His eyes full of hate for the fox, John feebly lifted his head up. He curled his lip disdainfully.

* * *

"Tatyanna!" Shang said placidly, a surreal vision amidst the carnage. Her green-eyed elder daughter approached from behind, stepping over bodies.

"Mother?"

Shang tossed some of her clothes to the fox. "Put these on, and pretend to be me. I need to find the rebel leaders and get them myself, and anyone who sees me as myself will be on me like a shot."

Intoxicated by the seeming usurpation of power, the greedy vixen accepted. "With pleasure to serve you, Mother." Shang nodded pertly, and strolled off.

Rydahl the Hunter watched from behind the ruins of a statue as Tatyanna jogged away from her mother. He tested the blade of his curious club, and sniggered. The fox had promised him much...now was the time to act.

Tatyanna had just enough time to turn around and scream as the nightmarish wolverine took a single swing. One swing: then her severed head lay silent, jaw agape, the green eyes paling to a terrified, blank white.

__

* * *

Noel ran behind Ringo, who followed Tori. He could see up ahead, over the drummer's shoulder, Tori's target: Shang stood bold and defiant on a small rise, armed with an axe stolen from the body of a fallen Husky and dealing death to any, hordebeast or wolf, that came near her. Ringo suddenly put on an extra burst of speed: Noel could not see the expression of his face, but he knew it was one of blind horror as Tori rushed straight toward the gleaming axehead.

"Tori noooooooo!!!!!!!" he yelled, and rushed ahead of her, leaping into the swing of Shang's plundered arms. The breath was suddenly knocked out of him, and his eyes rolled around in shock as the confused Shang pulled her axe away.

With this, Tori howled with rage, and tackled the fox indiscriminately, wrenching away the murder weapon and screaming, "AAYYAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!! RINGO!!!" She pulled Shang down onto the ground and held her fast as Noel sped up behind her to minister to Ringo.

The steel of the axehead had done its job well, tending to the boast that nobeast could withstand Northdog-forged armaments. Noel Gallagher crouched down next to the small wolf's head, oblivious of Tori's angered cursing of the fox a short distance away. 

"Noel?" Ringo blinked, his eyes already clouding over. The Manchester wolf leaned over him, grasping his paw with worry. 

"Yeah mate?" 

"Branwen, where's Branwen?" Noel shook his head, wishing he could provide a different answer. 

"I dunno. Haven't seen 'er since sunrise." 

Tori, in between the many punches and cleavings she was giving to Shang, cried bitterly "I DIDN'T COME SOON ENOUGH, AND NOW YOU'LL MAKE UP FOR MY LOST TIME, SCUM!!!" 

Ringo slumped back and sighed. Then he smiled peacefully. "Aw well, no matter, then." He reached up and draped his paw around Noel's neck imploringly, pulling him closer, knowing his voice was fading. "Listen, bury me by Loch Imnal, mate. Bloody marvelous place. So many willows..." 

* * *

Tori watched her enemy's darting eyes. "What are you thinking, huh? Are you thinking of ways to cheat the death you so rightly deserve, yet that you dolled out to my innocent people?!"

"Lady," she replied frantically, "you wrong me!"

Tori seemed to consider this. "All right then, fox. Would you like to see sunset once again?" Shang nodded her head furiously. "Offer me everything," she said coldly. The fox groveled as best she could trapped underneath Tori's vice-like hold. 

"Loot, plunder, slaves, your city rebuilt, your music, anything you say, just spare me, please!" The wolf lay there for moment, as if contemplating Shang's bribes. The fox began to become hopeful. She thought she saw the wolf's lips move. She lifted herself up slightly. "Hmm? What did you say?" Her captor glared disgustedly at her. With an angry swipe of her paw, Tori unexpectedly dealt a savage slash to Shang's exposed neck. The fox screamed: Tori ignored her as she growled through bared teeth, 

"My music, my songs! You even tried to take _that _ from us!!! _Ayyahh!_ what a fool!!" 

"Well then, what is it you want?!!!!!" she rasped.

Tori leaned close as Shang gasped for breath, the holes in her throat gaping like stares. "Give me life, give me pain, give me myself again..."

With a weak and shallow snarl, the Coldhearted One felt herself living up to her name as her pulse slowed. "I'll certainly give you pain, whelp!" she cursed at the red-furred wolf. With her last burst of energy, she shoved the long, piercing claws on her hindpaws into Tori's stomach, next to her left leg--- and tore. With an outraged cry, the wolf drew away from the Widowmaker and reached for the fallen Northdog's huge battleaxe. She seemed to drip herself in the slow motion that was Shang's last sight: the final, condemning vision of the raised axehead heading straight for her aching, struggling chest...

* * *

"AaaaaAaAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!" Noel Gallagher's deep-chested cry rang throughout the area as he, along with Gowran, Dyfed, and Kirkroan, plowed forward into the enemy. "Gowran, to yeh left, lookit!" he called as the Gael was busy fighting a rangy-looking weasel. His back was turned to another weasel, who was sneaking ever closer to him, an evil-looking daggar clenched in his teeth. "GOWRAN!!"

Gowran turned an instant too late. Cawfrent, the weasel, had already driven his weapon into his shoulder. With a scream, Noel and Eirann rushed at him from different sides. Overwhelmed, Cawfrent desperately slashed at the pair, striking Noel's face in several different places. One of the cuts gouged deep into the side of Noel's head, and suddenly the whole battlefield became black and quiet.


	14. XIII

__

George lifted his head off the desk wearily. He surveyed the scene: the carnage was awful. He knew something must be about to happen. It did. He watched:

Anastasia was scurrying and darting through the mute wreckage of the battle, mad thoughts forming in her twisted mind. "Who needs my mother and that idiot Tatyanna?" she ranted. "I never needed them in the first place! I'll gather a horde and do what my mother and sister were never capable of! I'll surpass--" The air became deathly still. It unnerved the fox, and she fell silent. Suddenly behind her, she heard an ominous, terrifying voice.

"I know what you want. The magpies have come." The vixen stiffened, and nearly didn't dare to turn around.

But she did.

Tori looked like a demon out of hell. Her bright red fur gleamed with the blood of Shang Widowmaker and her Winterchildren. She lowered her head but didn't growl. Her actions were much more unnerving. She began singing in an unearthly voice that reverberated and filled Anastasia's head. She edged closer.

"If you know me so well, then tell me which hand I use." 

"What are you doing?" she whispered meekly, realizing that she was trembling. Tori looked around at the battlefield, strewn with friends, allies, and enemies.

"Thought I'd been through this, in 1919," _she commented bitterly, _ "counting the tears, of ten thousand men..." _Anastasia's eyes widened as it dawned on her why the wolf was haunting her._

"No!" she screamed, backing away. "Leave me alone! That was my mother! And Tatyanna! I had nothing to do with that! Go 'way!" she yelled as the growing shadows enclosed her. Still Tori inched toward her.

"I'd gather them all, but my feet are slipping."

__

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" the fox shrieked, clenching her paws against her ears to eliminate the sound of justice returning to those who have earned it.

Almost to herself, Tori murmured, "There's something we left on the windowsill. There's something, we left. Yeesssssss.........." 

__

Unexpectedly, the princess swung both paws together in a club, knocking her enemy down. She then kicked her in her vulnerable, soft underbelly and in her side. Tori crouched down next to the gasping fox. "We'll see how brave you are," _she whispered. Anastasia stopped her heaving just long enough, and looked at her, confused. The wolf arose and stood over her. _"We'll see how fast you'll be running," _she sang, and kicked her again. Almost serenely, she continued on._ "We'll see how brave you are," _she told herself, watching the Arsonist scramble to her feet and begin running. Tori drew herself up and breathed,_ "Yes Anastasiaaaaa....." _She gestured to the casualties of war and called, _"And all your dollies had friends......." 

__

Anastasia didn't know how Tori knew where she'd stumble to, but found herself facing the princess somewhere in the middle of the field. The wolf silently threw a necklace of teeth and claws at her, her eyes hard and unfeeling. Anastasia recognized it as her mother's, and a desperate, fearful gurgle arose in her throat as Tori sang on.

"Thought she deserved, no less than she'd give. Well happy birthday, her blood's on my hands." _Did she hear my plans? the fox wondered deliriously. Tori looked at the ground, tearing. _"It's kind of a shame, 'cause I did like that dress. It's funny, the things that you find in the rain, the things that you find, yesssss...." 

__

Tori's green eyes burned furiously as her voice rose, throwing her shattered and burned life at her enemy. "In the mall and, in the date-mines! In the knots still, in heeeerrr hair! On the bus I'm, on my way down, on the way down, all the girls seem, to, beeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE theeeeeeeEEEEERRRRE!!!!!" _Anastasia, in a reckless attempt to escape the vindictive princess, picked up the necklace and thrust it hard into the wolf's bleeding side. Tori doubled over, but it only seemed to anger her even more. Anastasia, heedless of her small victory, ran on. She remembered how the wolf fell after she'd pushed her off the cliff: a bloodstain against the icy torrents that marked the sea and the storm rising above it._

Distraught Anastasia couldn't take any more. She ran harder and faster. The hounding voice of Tori Rubyhaer followed her wherever she tried to hide. 

Why could she not be rid of the blood-red wolf?!! The fox, ignorant of the large dip ahead of her, shrieked in surprise as she dropped down into the landscape. Tori stumbled onto the the highest point on the rim, glaring down into Anastasia. The wind was tearing at her, and Tori rose above her, her voice shrill and angry and vengeful beyond description. Her eyes were wild and frightening.

"We'll see how brave you are." 

__

"Stop! "

"We'll see how fast you'll be runnahihihiiiiiiiiing!!" 

__

"Stop..." Anastasia whimpered. Tori didn't heed her pleas. 

"We'll see how brave you are."_She threw back her head and her voice crackled and ripped through the sky._

"We'll seeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! We'll see how brave you!!!" _Her eyes, her famous green eyes, were boring into her doomed soul. _"Oh yes, we'll see how fast you'll be, running!!!"

__

Tori began chasing her again, like a rabid dog. She passed the fox, though, and stood waiting at the middle of the hill, waiting for the nearly-dead Anastasia to reach the summit. "We'll see how brave you are.." _she whispered, her voice shaking. The vixen looked up at Tori: her face showed she was realizing how quickly she was dying. The wolf stepped forward, and faltered; she half fell down next to her, the cairn of rocks no less harsh upon her shredded body. But, quaking, she pulled herself up to the quickly-fading Arctic fox: she finished her sentence, staring right into her two-toned eyes. _"Yes, Anastasia." 

__

Tori, exhausted, sat quivering over the corpse of her last great purpose. Her heart felt very weak... and she was, quite dizzy....She took a breath. "Come aloooong, little darling. Come alooooong, now, with meeee...." _She leaned down close, next to the body's ear. _"Come alooooong, now, my little darling." _Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer collapsed for the last time, and barely managed to whisper, _"We'll see how brave you, arreee......." 

* * *

Dolores walked past the gatehouse as she strolled the grounds with Waterback. "I wonder what George is doing in there," she said, a tinge of worry tainting her normally jolly voice. "He's been in there neigh on three days."

"Well, let's take a look," the otter replied sensibly. "It's strange: he's crippled, ain't 'e? Well, I've been hearin' 'im thrashin' about in there like 'e's bein' tortured by summat. Must be a terrible mess in there." The pair peeked through a small, slightly clouded window.

The small interior was indeed a wreck. Through the dim light, they could see the heavy multitude of papers ripped and scattered about. Deep claw gouges wracked the wooden shelf sides: a fairly thick section of a branch, surreally enough, lay on the floor, chewed almost in half.

Then Dolores spotted George.

He lay on the floor, half-in and out of a toppled desk. His great dark eyes were heavily crusted at the edges, and he was blinking, struggling to clear them. He looked even gaunter than anyone could have ever imagined. There was a tired, drained expression on his scarred face. He must have heard Dolores's loud gasp, and her order to the swift otter to fetch Sister Joan, for he moved only his bleary eyes to look directly at her, in such a disturbing way that the badger nearly broke down crying. George's gaze was that of one who had just helplessly watched a soul perish.

* * *

Paul Braunhayr stumbled through the dead bodies and wreckage with heavy, clumsy feet. He had to find the others. Noel, he knew, was within the ruins of the castle nursing an injured face, and most everyone else was accounted for. He angrily kicked aside vermin, and cried alongside friends. He suddenly pricked his ears up. Someone nearby was moving and groaning. Paul leaned closer to see who it was.

"Paul....mate, 'elp me." Liam's voice was dangerously weak. He was blinking druggedly, in shock. The senior wolf dashed forward, and pulled him from the body he was laying atop. He was about to hug him, the first of their "pack" he'd found alive. But Liam wrenched himself away and fell back down onto the body, sobbing hysterically. Paul craned his neck to see who his friend was desperately hugging. His face drained, and even the choking sounds he felt in his throat were muted.

John lay before them peacefully, torn apart by wounds and impaled by a knife in his side. His laughing bright eyes were cloudy and flat. Paul's breath suddenly came in staggered gasps, and he slowly slid down to the ground. 

"Oh, Paul, he was so brave!" Liam was wailing. "I saw it, Paul, I saw it! 'E was brought b'fore th'Widowmaker, an' she said somethin' to 'im, an'-an', he was so brave! He was more 'elpless than a babby mouse, but he spat at 'er, defyin' 'er still! Then some ferret outs th-that," he pointed to the weapon in John's chest, "an' kills 'im on th'spot! Then Gandreth, that other ferret, th'good one, he's lyin' over there--" Paul looked to where Liam indicated: two ferrets, one staked with a knife just as John was, the other still looking at the javelin through her middle. The young wolf could go on no more, and limply hung his head and continued weeping.

"Poor thing, t'was all he could've dreamed of an' wanted," Paul whispered. "Now I know why George couldn't stop starin' at 'im when we left Redwall, he knew 'e'd never see 'im again." He buried his face in John's neck, and heaved his friend up into his lap, cradling the body like an infant. 

Some time later, it seemed, he rose up. He looked down at John a last time, and stoically told Liam, "C'mon, we've got t'find more survivors."

Liam looked up at him, horrified. "But-but, John! We can't just leave 'im here!"

"We'll remember where he lies!" Paul barked. "Lord knows we'll never forget it. But we need to find the other two!" Reluctant with misery, the Gallagher also stood up, and shakily began to walk, following Paul. 

It was not much longer before Liam stumbled over a huge carcass, in the middle of the battlefield. He looked back at what had tripped him. Paul examined it grimly. "Well, it seems that Tori got th'Widowmaker after all."

Shang's body was a gruesome sight. The axe had completely split her chest open, and her throat was ripped to shreds. Her barbaric green eyes still stared out at them, still terrified at her last sight. Paul kicked it.

"Get up, lad. We'll chuck this worthless thing into th'sea when we're done." He turned around, and his large eyes fell and became sad once more. 

He kneeled down beside a pitiful small heap of fur, a breeze already playing with it lightly, in only a way as it does with dead creatures. He teared, and said softly to the body, "Ohhhh, Ringo......"

Liam's head was bowed. He was on the top of a small rise, and from here he could see the entire bloody battle field, bodies strewn like rag dolls across the land. His breath rattled in his chest. Unexpectedly, he heard something down below through the silence, something on the wind. It was high and angry: such a pure voice could only be Tori's.

"We'll see how brave you are. We'll see how fast you'll be, running...."

Paul jumped at the unearthly, hounding sound. He joined Liam just beneath the crest, and watched, horrified, as the princess dealt out her final crushing blow to Anastasia Ashpaw the Arsonist, the one who'd set fire to her life and burned it down around her ears; the one who'd pushed her over the cliff, and left her for the torrential seas to finish. 

Paul leaned forward, his body stiff and frightened. Tori's voice carried well across the dip: like a thunderbolt it ripped though the air.

"We'll seeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! We'll see how brave you!!! Oh yes, we'll see how fast you'll be running!!" The two male wolves watched, unable to move, as Tori began chasing Anastasia, rabid with anger. The fox was pleading weakly: they could not distinguish the words. Tori overtook the fox, though, and stood waiting at the top of a hill, waiting for the nearly-dead Anastasia to reach the summit. 

"What's she sayin' now?" Liam whispered fearfully.

"I dunno, I can't hear 'er," Paul replied, riveted. Liam jumped as he saw Tori fall, but restrained himself from running down to help her.

Tori was staring right into the fox's eyes. She sat up shakily, her lips still moving.

She then collapsed, heavily, and moved no more.

Frantically, he raced over the crest of the hill, Liam at his side. All he needed was a single mortified look to tell him all he needed and feared to know. Slowly, mournfully, he walked down to where the two bodies lay, and sat down next to Tori's. And he threw back his head and a cry ripped from beyond his deep, confused soul tore across the air. Liam joined him, tears running down his face. He glanced angrily at the red-and-white patchwork of Anastasia's bloodstained fur, and roughly pushed the body aside. Then, his expression becoming vulnerable, he joined Paul in his dirge, not noticing the remains of their army clustering around the rim of the craterlike depression.

They buried Tori and John together, atop a cliffside, by the sea. 


	15. XIV

The process of accounting for and putting the dead in their final resting places was long and hard. Ringo's was especially emotional: Noel, acting accordingly to their friend's last words, picked the very spot for his grave. It was a quiet place on the shoreline: large willows shaded the area and provided soothing music when the wind traveled through their hair. 

Paul, perched on a stool near the memorial, could not bring himself to meet the eyes of the rest of the downcast crowd. Clutching the neck of a guitar he'd discovered, he watched the ground at his feet as he paid tribute with a sweet, simple ballad. 

"Born a poor young country boy,   
Mother Nature's son.   
All day long, I'm sitting singing songs   
for everyone. 

"Sit beside a mountain stream.   
See her waters rise.   
Listen to the pretty sound of music as   
she flies. 

"Find me in my field of grass,   
Mother Nature's son.   
Swaying daisies sing a lazy song   
beneath the sun. 

"Ooooommmmmmm, Mother Nature's son...." He sighed heavily at the end of the song, and wiped away the many tears creating crevices in his facefur. 

* * * 

Later that day, most of the remnants of the army stood silently at the cliffside near their camp. The location was formerly that of a large marble courthouse: portions of the wall remained erect. Into these, masons would soon set about to carving the names of every single casualty in the great battle. But for now, the monstrous chunks of rock before Tori and John were empty, as an epitaph had not been written yet. 

The freshly covered graves were laden with hundreds of flowers, notes, and other mementos friends wished them to take in death. Their sweet smells even conquered the odor of pervading death that would, for some, forever hang over the rolling hills by the sea. 

Rivenna, who only three days ago had performed the royal funeral hymn for those slain in the massacre, stood nearby, the breeze blowing her fur awry and cooling a face hot with unceasing mourning. Her voice rang out just as pure and honeyed as ever, but there was no joy in it as she sang her composition honoring the two. 

"Spend all your time waiting, for that second chance.   
For a break that would make it okay.   
There's always some reason, to feel not good enough,   
And it's hard at the end of the day. 

I need some distraction, or beautiful release   
as memories seep through my veins.   
Let me be emptied, or weightless and maybe   
I'll find some peace tonight. 

In the arms of the angel, far away from here.   
From this stark cold hotel room, and the endlessness   
that you fear. 

You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent reverie.   
You're in the arms of the angel,   
may you find, some comfort here. 

So tired of the strained light, and everywhere you turn,   
there's vultures and thieves at your back.   
The story keeps on twisting, keeps on building the lies   
that you make up for all that you lack. 

It don't make no difference, escaping one last time.   
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness,   
or this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees.

In the arms of the angel, far away from here.   
From this stark cold hotel room, and the endlessness   
that you fear. 

You are pulled from the wreckage, of your silent reverie.   
You're in the arms of the angel,   
may you find, some comfort here." 

As the wind claimed the last remaining notes of the song, it whipped through the assembled crowd, adding an eerie cadence to what happened next. Kirkroan solemnly began beating the Irish war drum that had summoned the Gaels to both battle and dance. Like the knell of a hammer, Rivenna began calling out the names of the slain loved ones of Tori's Vreeteerdan army. 

"Gowran Skycap. Ellis Underwood. Ringo Starr. Owen Our Poet. John O'Lennain. Sarthe the Danehearted. Aberyn Whitehall. Gandreth Celeveltryn. Perennial and Marared Fiortin. Boxer." She stood, head stolidly erect, eyes faced out towards the sea, naming the casualties that freedom had claimed. Not one creature left until the last name was cited: Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer. 

* * * 

Liam, his strong heart completely shattered by the loss, lay atop the graves for nearly a fortnight. He refused consolidation, remained mute and silent as his deceased comrades, and wouldn't move from the spot. He only reluctantly accepted food from concerned comrades. No amount of coaxing from anyone could remove him. 

But then, on a morning of a thick gray and blue skyscape, torn at the edge with the glow of morning, Liam was at breakfast. He silently stood in line for Rivenna's carrot soup, accepted his ladle, and stiffly sat down to eat, leaning against a boulder. He did so quietly, his eyes watching the small remnant of Tori's great army converse and wonder about their future. He smiled wanly as he listened to Rivenna reluctantly dole out seconds, berating them good-naturedly in her melodious Aiyar accent. When finished, he arose and walked over to a circle of logs and rocks. A few wolves were clustered on them, among them Paul and Noel. 

Branwen and Paul were chatting amicably: Noel silently sat and listened. 

"Y'know," Paul mused, "I wonder just how many friends and loved ones our army sacrificed for this. I'm not sayin' t'wasn't worth it, but still..." 

"Well, it does depend on your definition of dead. There's those like Tori an' John and Ringo. Plenty of those--" 

"And then there's Liam," Noel finished. "I'm fair worried 'bout th'lad. He's nothin' like 'imself lately. He's taken depression to new heights!" 

Branwen smiled grimly. " 'Tis just the mourning of the lovelorn. There are many of us, too. Yes, poor Liam. Tori was ever John's, wasn't she?" She looked up from stirring her tea and her expression changed. "I'll be seeing you: I'd best leave you two alone for this one." She abruptly stood up and left for another corner of camp. 

When Noel saw his brother looming over them, he immediately stood up, his scarred face and single eye deeply concerned. "Liam, are yeh alright? We thought we'd lost yeh back there for a while." Bowing his head, his younger sibling indicated for him to sit back down. Noel awkwardly obeyed his brother, and both he and Paul leaned forward to hear him speak once again. Stolid-faced, he held a whispered conversation with the two. 

"I've been thinkin'. That stone they were buried at th'foot of needs an inscription. An epitaph, y'know. I know what it should be." 

"Well, what?" Paul inquired gently. 

His eyes still averted to the ground, Liam spoke very softly. "To our cherished Siren and our Laughing Rogue: every time it rains it is your wings dripping. Run free and sing forever together. It is what you fought for and won." 

In front of them, in and around Rivenna's precious soup cauldron, portions of conversation were drifting back to the logs. 

"Still, I wish we hadn't had to fight this," an otter named Artenga was saying, shaking her head sadly. "We lost most of our friends and family to those foxes." 

"Yes, but they'll never spread evil thr'out th'land agin, tho'," Taiga added impeccably, standing next to the soup and arguing for thirds. "Y'don't 'ave t'fight no more if your en'mies're all dead. Me da' tole me that, and look, 'tis proved itself true." 

"Well, now that Shang is gone, why don't we rebuild Leedsdown?" another wolf suggested. "It was such a beautiful city, and surely it can become what it once was eventually---" 

"No!" 

The stern voice coming from Rivenna was not hers, nor were the ereathral green eyes she stared at them with. Taiga, startled, backed away: Liam straightened like a bowstring. He turned cautiously and added his stares to the rest of the camp's. 

She spoke again. Her fur glinted slightly red in the early daylight. "Leedsdown can never be rebuilt. There are too many ghosts here for the living to stay. Let this place serve as a memorial, but not as a home." The wolf sensed the question of Well, where do we go? before it crossed anyone's lips. Tori lifted her head and gazed at the morning sky. 

"Go now from this shattered berth,   
Love not the ground which shelters me.   
Find a home, inland from surf,   
Encased in red, far from this sea. 

"And to you, blue-eyed brothers, dear friends of ours;   
Wolf with last name brown plus mine;   
I bind you forthwith with this bar. 

Go 'cross the land, across the sea.   
To Yellowback himself, give this line:   
"Never forget me." 

"And me," John added suddenly. Those watching whirled around to his familiar voice. Noel stood strangely still, brown eyes gazing lovingly at Rivenna. 

"Nor me," Aelfwald implored in Ringo's voice. 

Liam's voice crackled. "Friends," he whispered, standing up, "we miss you!" 

Wordlessly, Rivenna stepped down from the mound. He saw not her face and her purple black fur: instead, it was fiery, lovely red. Walking around the mound, she approached Liam and draped her paws around his neck. She kissed him, twice. 

"Tori..." he murmured, holding one of her paws to his hot cheek. "D'you know how long I've been waiting for that?" He grinned, blue eyes brimming over. She smiled, and, with the affection of a dear friend, caressed his tear-stained face tenderly. 

"Take care....." Liam closed his eyes, not wishing for his lost love to depart. 

Rivenna suddenly blinked. When she opened her eyes, they were no longer Tori's green. Stunned and aghast, she slowly drew her purple-black paws away from the quietly crying Liam, and gazed around in a stupor. Noel was squinting at the flabbergasted spectators, and Aelfwald muttered in his thick Gaelic accent that he felt faint. 

* * * 

Dolores sat perched on the wall top, surveying Redwall's outside and the goings-on in them. She watched as Skipper conversed urgently with Leith, though of exactly what she did not know. She closed her eyes, and remembered Tryffen's last scroll. She really ought to translate it for poor Brother Neil: he was frantic with curiosity as to what it was. 

The poem, her brother told her, had come to him in a strange trance as he had wandered through the Halls of the Future. As Antisle stood in front of the story of Boar the Fighter, his gaze had fallen upon the image of Martin the Warrior, emerging from the mountain with his newly-reforged sword. He had come into a reverie of faces and voices he did not recognize. Above all stood out Martin, who eyed him calmly and recited in a slow, even tone, 

"Worry not, they will come;   
Blue-eyed, brown haired, singing ones.   
Next spring will arrive, midsummer's go,   
But three will soon return, I know. 

Redwall reversed, a new heart born,   
Will receive my coveted ancient sword.   
Alas! but wait! when these leaves do fall,   
List': the north's warriors have a tale for all."   



	16. XV

Abbot Daniel sat underneath an oak tree, watching Jakob's grave sadly. He heard George limping over to him long before he spoke to him

The tree above them was in full autumn regalia: its splendor was not lost on the young abbot.

"I wish poor Jakob could see this tree he sleeps underneath," he sighed. Lame George steadied himself on his cane, and slowly, stiffly, sat down next to the mouse. "How will we tell Michael when he comes back?"

"It will be hard," George agreed quietly, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. A breeze played with some of the fallen russet leaves. They danced through the weatherworn graveyard and into the orchard. His steady, serious eyes watched them: even in death, they had not a care in the world. He smiled slightly. I know beasts like that.... His head turned at something. "Hmm? What did you say?" 

Daniel looked at him. "I didn't say anything." George chuckled at himself.

"Silly me, then, must be the old war wound. I thought you just said 'but there'll always be Redwall.'"

The mouse's ears perked up. "You know, I _do _hear someone calling our abbey name!" He held up a paw. "Listen! Do you hear that?"

He jumped up, and scampered up the battlement steps on the northern wall. His face lit up excitedly. "Oh look! They're here! Oh, George, I wish you could see this! Come up, look! They're back! Our warriors are back!"

Not all of them, Father, he sighed, and struggled toward the stairway.

The sight that greeted him was one George Flantyr would recall the rest of his long life.

Dust was rising miles back from the returning friends. A long column of wolves, otters, and hares was steadily advancing toward the abbey. The abbot was ecstatic. He raced along the battlement wall, shouting "The bells! Someone ring the bells! Friends! Our friends are home!"

Skipper and Leith fought the gates, which wouldn't open fast enough. The whole population of Redwall Abbey flooded out the doors, the youngest and fleetest of foot racing ahead to meet the homecoming heroes. The abbot, like the mischievous Dibbun he had been in earlier seasons, was in front of them all.

"Look! They've come t'meet uz!" Rivenna shouted, her voice shrill with glee. "Look a' that, 'tis like a parade!"

The two columns soon met at the heads: Abbot Daniel finally lay eyes on Michael, their Abbey Champion, again. The warrior mouse bowed, and, unsheathing the great sword, presented it to his abbot.

"Father Abbot, we have come home."

A wild roar was set up on both ends, a roar of celebration that echoed throughout Mossflower. 

George was pulling himself forward at a speed amazing even to him. He reached the spot where the two armies mingled, his face alight. "Aelfwald! Michael, Rivenna, Adia! Good to see you!" 

Accidentally, he stumbled into a smokey-gray wolf. She carried a small child, which she cradled with worry after trying to help the Recorder to his feet. George refused, pushing himself up with his cane quickly. He dusted himself off momentarily and bowed to her. "Please accept my apologies, miss, it's always pretty hard when you're caught between someone's Point A and B." She smiled, and bounced the baby.

"That's quite alright, mister Flantyr." The pup awakened, and sleepily opened his large, sad blue eyes and gazed at George. The mother wolf began talking sweetly to him. "Look, Ritchie, this is your daddy's friend George. You'll be getting to know him quite well at Redwall, won't you, honey pie?"

George stared. "This-this is Ringo's son?" He then smiled slowly. "I should have recognized him! He looks exactly like his father. Many congratulations, um..."

"Branwen. Branwen MacIntyre."

George smiled, a bittersweet tone to him voice. "Branwen." He took a breath shakily. "Many condolences also."

She bit her lip, trying not to tear. "Thank you."

George's wandering eye spotted something behind her. He dipped his head quickly and said, "Excuse me."

He made his way to Taiga and Tamga, the Gaelic cheiftan's twins. "Well," he smiled ironically, "circumstances were certainly different when we last met. Tell me," he continued, "where are Tori and John? Ringo, Paul, Liam, Noel, where are they?" 

The twins' faces were immediately somber. "George," Taiga began, her throat still choked with emotion to talk of it. "We lost them. Tori and John are dead. So's Ringo."

"You woulda been so proud of them, George," Tamga continued, unashamedly weeping already. "They were so brave..."

George's haggard face was searching. He hadn't known about this..... Something must be wrong here. His jaw opened and closed in shock. "But-but, surely not....not Paul an' Liam an' Noel? Not...not them?!"

Tamga managed to smile, and pulled a scroll from his tunic pocket. "They said to give you this." He handed it to the thin, somber Abbey Recorder. George quickly unrolled it and began to read Paul's familiar, beautiful handwriting.

"Tori, Ringo, and John came to us, through Rivenna, Aelfwald, and Noel. Here is what they said to us. Don't worry, we'll be back before next summer. Until then, we miss you. Keep well, George Flantyr. Always keep your fire alive.

Paul Braunhayr

Noel Gallagher

Liam Gallagher"

He continued reading. "Go now from this shattered berth, love not the ground which shelters me...." He read on silently, and smiled strangely, sharing the last line aloud: "Never forget me." He looked at the twins, glowing behind his tears. "Tori Fairskye Rubyhaer." He sighed, and smiled at the thought and memory. "Caawww, t'see Angliaterryn. I tell you, I'd dearly love to be with them now." He turned to the wolves. "But come now, enough o' that, y'must be starving. Our abbey doors are open to you always. Stay and rest awhile, and tell us the tale of our dearly beloved friends."

* * *

The journey across the Giant's Causeway had been tricky: the wind was blowing the sea around their feet, and sometimes Liam feared the waves would overtake them. The trickery of the stones was aggravating, but Paul and Noel led them through it well. 

On the other side, on the stony shore of Nosummer's pebbled beach, an Arctic hare waited for them. He shouted through the driving mists of the rare gift of a drizzled rain, waving his paws to signal his presence.

He smiled courteously as the three travelers smiled at him and said their Hullos. The hare bowed. "Welcome, warriors. My name is Caxton Miahcris. I am Governor Yellowback's messenger. We've been expecting you for some time."

Paul smiled through his shaggy fur and bobbed his head to the hare. "Well, seems we've got some business with th'Governor. A friend of ours told us t'drop in on old Yellowback."

"And so you have," a booming voice said happily. A huge polar bear materialized out of the mist. The three wolves were completely enawed. He bowed. "I am honored to be in the company of the friends and soldiers of Tori Rubyhaer. Her name has come to be treasured throughout this land as that of a savior. Come, we will go back to the stronghold. You can finish your tale there."

Noel's bushy eyebrows were raised, questioningly. "Finish, Lord?"

Yellowback Creenhlay smiled. "Yes. Please, tell me how my dear friends' daughter and her friends accomplished such a notable deed."

Liam spoke for the first time.

Liam Gallagher had grown up quite a bit since the loss of John and Tori and their last visit to him. His deep blue eyes were no longer arrogant, but wise. He still sang, and he was still light-hearted, but Liam had learned quite possibly the most important aspect of adulthood, which he had certainly grown into. Life is there to live, not to sorrow over lost comrades or fight among friends and foes. And nobeast knew this better than Liam Gallagher, as he quietly began to tell the story. The story he would never let the world forget.

"Well, Lord, in the town of Leedsdown Tundralake, a princess sought refuge from the foxes who had just decimated her life. She was found, and thrown off the cliff the palace rested on, by the fox Shang Widowmaker, who thought that she had finished the last of Colvin and Derynai..."


	17. Epilogue

"Jack! Oh Jack! Come look at this! Hurry up!" Victoria Tamworth excitedly turned up the volume on the television and herded her husband into the room. On the air, Mattimeo Lawlor repeated the breaking news. 

"That story for you once again. Archaeologists in the Leedsdown Innisvree Heritage Site battlefield in Tundralake have unearthed a large cache of astoundingly well-preserved musical instruments, inscribed with the names of their owners. Among the guitars, drumsticks, violins, harps, and uillean pipes, the names of legends Tori Rubyhaer, Ringo Starr, Rivenna Dyfedfinne, and John O'Lennain are carved, adding further proof to the story recorded at Mossflower's Redwall Abbey by its veterans over a thousand years ago. Reporter Jill Murraine is at the scene." 

The image shifted from the mouse to the squirrel. She clutched her earpiece and huddled against the windswept highlands as she spoke. 

"Yes, Matt. The underground stone enclosure is believed to have been a storage room of some kind from the old city's Tyne Palace, which historians now know stood on this spot. It was unearthed about a week ago, and experts are still trying to translate some of the messages and poems engraved on the walls. As you can see behind me here to my right--" 

Jack grinned and sat down next to his wife. "That's funny. We've never seen it, but I bet yeh we could translate all those easy enough." 

Victoria smiled too. "Sure could. Though it's been a fair while since we were there, eh?" 

John leaned back in the couch, found the remote between the cushions, and turned off the TV. He and Tori exchanged knowing glances: their respective brown and green eyes twinkled and danced. 

  
  
  
  


**TARDANFINNE (freedom's daughter)**

She came to Redwall, borne by greed.   
Ruby-haired, em'rald-eyed.   
Avengence for White Fox did breed:   
She'd hunt them 'till the day she died. 

Princess who lived in Tyne Palace,   
Timeless 'till those foxes came.   
You bought salvation from the malice   
and sold yourself to buy back names. 

Leedsdown Innisvree is quiet now,   
Long echoes of a battle half-won.   
Fighters carved in stone are immortalized but how   
Would the city have remained if Shang hadn't come? 

So mark my words, this battle cry,   
"Justice!" is for what our friends have died.   
How often I see faces, painted in the sky,   
And recall our great adventure and unwasted lives! 

Liam Gallagher Innisvree   
Bard, of Redwall Abbey   
(formerly of Manchester Tundralake)

  



End file.
